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W.  A.  ROGERS 

From  a  Drawing  by  Joseph  St.  Amand 


A  WORLD  WORTH  WHILE 


e/f  ^cord  of    Auld  Acquaintance 


?} 


'By 
W.    A.    ROGERS 


JVith  Illustrations 
by  the  oAuthor 


HARPER    &  BROTHERS    PUBIJSHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

<mcMxxn 


A  World  Worth  While 


Copyright,  1922,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

H-W 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

W.  A.  Rogers  (from  a  drawing  by  Joseph  St. 

Amand)    Frontispiece 

The  First  Telephone Facing  page        8 

Alexander  Graham  Bell's  Experimental  Room  in 

Boston "  16 

A  Wizard's  Black  Art  in  Salem "  30 

Gray  Parker  (from  a  sketch  made  in  the  '70s) . .  "  48 

The  "Daily  Graphic"  Room  at  Mouquin's "  48 

From  a  Sketch  Made  at  President  Gariield's  Bed- 
side    "  60 

Trying  to  Lower  the  White  House  Temperature.  "  82 

He  Didn't  Like  the  Road-bed "  100 

Jim  Saves  the  Mail "  120 

Fort  Garry,  Manitoba,  in  1878 "  136 

Will  Carey  (by  C.  S.  Reinhart) "  150 

A  Few  Attempts  to  Penetrate  a  Great  Mask. . .  "  150 

The  First  Spadeful "  164 

A  Cartoon  Which  Killed  a  Bad  BUI  at  Albany. .  "  192 

Looking  Over  the  Candidate "  318 

Explaining  Much "  230 

The  Mountain  People "  250 

Young  Abbey  and  His  Mentor,  Charles  Parsons, 

in  Franklin  Square "  260 

A  Little  Model  Who  Posed  for  "Toby  Tyler". . .  "  298 

Hungry  Gulch  *♦  298 


■i  C- 


A  WORLD  WORTH  WHILE 


INTRODUCTION 

A  LITTLE  while  ago  (perhaps  it  may  have  been 
early  in  the  'eighties)  the  boy  that  I  knew  best 
read  "Toby  Tyler"  and  "Mr.  Stubbs's  Brother"  in 
Harper's  Young  People  with  a  great  deal  of  happi- 
ness, and  made  a  most  influential  acquaintance 
thereby.  This  acquaintance  was  not  one  personally 
and  in  the  flesh,  so  to  speak,  and  yet  the  boy  cer- 
tainly felt  that  he  knew  W.  A.  Rogers  pretty  well. 

W.  A.  Rogers  was  the  name  signed  to  the  illustra- 
tions accompanying  those  delightful  stories,  and  the 
boy  liked  the  pictures  so  much  that  he  tried  to  draw 
other  pictures  in  the  manner  of  W.  A.  Rogers,  and 
began  to  believe  that  nothing  could  content  him  but 
to  become  an  illustrator,  and  in  general  about  such 
a  man  as  this  W.  A.  Rogers  surely  must  be.  For  the 
illustrations  of  W.  A.  Rogers  seemed  to  tell  a  great 
deal  about  the  man  that  made  them:  they  had  that 
quality.  They  seemed  to  understand  the  people 
they  exhibited  and  to  understand  these  people  in 
the  friendliest  and  most  humorous  way.  They  were 
clear  pictures,  too,  and  there  was  no  affectation 
about  them,  no  pretense;  the  drawing  was  as  honest 
as  George  Washington.  So  the  boy,  studying  the 
pictures,  thought  that  W.  A.  Rogers  must  be  a 
pretty  fine  man,  and  a  pretty  capable  man;  a  man 
with  a  humorous,  friendly  outlook,  a  man  as  kind 


INTRODUCTION 

and  sunny  as  he  was  keen — that  is  to  say,  a  pretty 
remarkable  man  all  round. 

The  other  boys  of  that  generation  felt  the  same 
way  about  W.  A.  Rogers,  and  as  they  grew  older 
the  sight  of  one  of  his  pictures  would  always  bring 
the  look  into  their  eyes  that  we  have  when  we  come 
upon  an  old  friend.  The  boy  I  mentioned  in  par- 
ticular failed  to  become  an  illustrator,  however;  he 
could  never  quite  get  the  "know-how"  of  it;  but 
although  he  had  to  give  up  that  ambition,  he  never 
saw  a  picture  drawn  by  W.  A.  Rogers  without  think- 
ing of  what  an  interesting  and  charming  man  stood 
behind  the  pictures — a  man  who  seemed  to  know 
pretty  much  everything  that  was  going  on,  and  to 
know  the  people,  too,  who  made  the  things  go  on. 

Finally,  the  boy-admirer  read  this  book  and 
discovered  that  all  boys  of  his  generation  have  been 
exactly  right  in  what  they  have  been  thinking  of 
W.  A.  Rogers  for  the  last  forty  years. 

Booth  Taekington. 

Indianapolis,  February,  1922. 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 


i^U  ami*  (ZrjkS  fcttJsr^io^j  Jw  t«»l, 


A    WORLD  WORTH  WHILE 


CHAPTER  I 

CHINESE  scholars,  I  am  told  by  a  medical 
friend  who  practiced  his  profession  in  the 
Orient,  have  recourse  to  a  drug  which  sets  a 
keen  edge  on  the  faculty  of  memory.  By  its  aid  they 
are  enabled  to  recall  the  most  minute  details  of  long- 
past  events  and  of  long-forgotten  knowledge.  Not 
having  the  advantage  of  this  old  prescription,  I  can 
only  polish  up  the  mirror  in  which  I  see,  surrounding 
me,  the  faces  of  a  most  interesting  company.  Like 
the  genii  who  appeared  when  Aladdin  rubbed  his 
lamp,  these  old  friends  and  acquaintances  rise  up 
before  memory's  eye  when  I  brush  away  the  mists 
of  years. 

One  night,  not  so  long  ago,  I  sat  at  a  public  dinner, 
admiring  the  venerable  white  head  of  Alexander 
Graham  Bell.  The  distinguished  inventor  of  the 
telephone  sat  beside  the  toastmaster,  who  was  intro- 
ducing him.  Slowly  the  people  before  me  faded  in 
a  smoky  haze  and  I  seemed  to  hear  a  far-distant 
voice  singing  "Auld  Lang  Syne."  In  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  I  was  back  in  the  'seventies,  a  young  news- 
paper artist  on  the  trail  of  a  weird  tale  about  a  young 
professor  in  the  Boston  LTniversity  who,  it  was  said, 

1 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

was  perfecting  a  device  for  projecting  the  human 
voice  over  a  wire. 

Young  Professor  Bell  was  not  seeking  publicity. 
In  fact,  he  was  seeking  seclusion,  and  I  had  great 
difficulty  in  locating  him;  but  at  last  one  afternoon 
I  caught  him  at  the  university.  A  short  talk  with 
him  evidently  dismissed  any  suspicions  he  may  have 
had  of  a  dangerous  knowledge  of  science  on  my  part. 
He  invited  me  to  witness  an  interesting  work  in 
which  he  was  engaged  at  the  university,  and  I  went 
with  him  into  an  empty  recitation  hall,  where  a 
young  lady — a  deaf  mute — soon  appeared  for  a 
lesson  in  speech.  Professor  Bell  said  to  me,  as  he 
stood  with  her  on  a  platform  at  the  end  of  the  hall: 
"Until  two  months  ago  this  young  woman  had  never 
spoken  a  word  in  her  life.  She  is  now  learning  lip 
reading  and  the  spoken  word.  She  will  speak  to 
you."  This  she  did,  saying  quite  distinctly  that  it 
was  a  pleasant  evening. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  describe,  as  I  remember  it, 
something  of  Professor  Bell's  method  of  teaching. 
He  threw  back  his  head  and  the  young  woman 
placed  her  sensitive  fingers  on  his  throat;  then 
over  and  over  again  he  went  through  the  vowel 
sounds — she  endeavoring  to  imitate  him  through 
the  varying  shades  of  vibration.  We  left  the  uni- 
versity, and  on  our  way  to  the  house  where  Pro- 
fessor Bell  was  conducting  his  experiments  with  the 
telephone  he  explained  to  me  how  his  work  in  teach- 
ing mechanical  speech  to  deaf  mutes  was  largely  the 
basis  of  his  idea  to  make  the  wire  transmit  human 
speech. 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Finally  we  came  to  a  little  blind  street  or  court. 
At  the  upper  end  of  it  was  a  tiny,  three-story  house. 
This  was  the  den  of  the  magician,  the  house  of 
Merlin,  but  this  great  wizard  was  carefully  disguised 
as  a  modest  young  junior  professor. 

I  was  young,  perhaps  twenty  years  of  age;  he 
wasn't  much  older,  about  twenty-seven,  I  think; 
and  having  decided  to  take  me  in  behind  the  scenes, 
he  led  me  to  an  upper  floor  where,  amid  coils  of 
wire  and  experimental  instruments  in  various  states 
of  completion,  there  lay  on  a  table  something 
closely  resembling  an  old  box  trap  such  as  we  used 
to  set  for  muskrats  when  I  was  a  boy— just  an 
oblong  box  with  a  round  mouthpiece  inserted  at  one 
end  and  a  couple  of  insulated  wires  leading  out  from 
a  mysterious  interior — as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect. 

After  explaining  to  me  how  the  various  vowel 
sounds  were  reproduced  in  different  series  of  wave 
lengths,  he  ran  downstairs  to  the  basement,  and 
from  the  rudely  constructed  telephone,  through  coils 
of  wire  piled  up  on  the  staircase  and  out  of  the 
magic  muskrat  trap,  came  the  strains  of  "Auld 
Lang  Syne."  The  voice  of  Alexander  Graham  Bell 
was  coming  to  me,  in  the  old,  familiar  song,  over 
half  a  mile  of  wire. 

Professor  Bell  had  the  simplicity  of  manner  of  a 
man  absorbed  in  his  work,  with  never  a  thought  of 
the  great  place  it  was  to  make  for  him  for  all  time 
in  the  scientific  world.  The  sketches  which  I  made 
at  that  time  for  the  Daily  Graphic  bring  back  many 
memories  of  my  visit  to  the  little  house  at  the  end 
of  the  court.     Something  must  have  whispered  to 

3 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

me  that  I  was  making  sketches  of  a  very  hnportant 
historical  event  and  that  no  Uttle  detail  should  be 
neglected. 

There  is  the  one  of  Professor  Bell  seated  at  the 
"in'ards"  of  a  cheap  cabinet  organ  or  melodeon. 
One  sees  that  he  is  experimenting  in  the  transmission 
of  musical  sounds  over  the  telephone.  The  patterns 
of  the  wallpaper  and  of  the  carpet  are  shown,  even 
the  design  on  the  window  shade.  It  was  not  re- 
markably artistic  work,  but  the  material  for  a 
historical  picture  is  there — the  picture  of  a  white 
owl  on  the  wall,  the  chair  on  which  Professor  Bell  is 
seated,  the  detail  of  the  wiring  and  of  the  box  tele- 
phone, the  height  of  the  ceiling.  All  these  trifling 
details  are  what  give  a  picture  of  this  kind  a  sense 
of  reality.  They  tell  the  story  of  patient  work 
in  a  little,  low-ceiled,  cheap  room  with  primitive 
materials. 

The  presence  of  that  musical  instrument  in  the 
picture  of  Professor  Bell's  expermental  room  is  very 
significant.  It  tells  more  than  appears  at  a  glance 
of  the  bypaths  that  were  explored  by  Bell  and  others 
before  they  finally  struck  the  main  road  to  the 
transmission  of  human  speech  by  wire.  In  a  lecture 
delivered  before  the  Society  of  Telegraph  Engineers 
in  London  in  1877,  Professor  Bell  said:  "I  imagined 
to  myself  a  series  of  tuning  forks  of  different  pitches, 
arranged  to  vibrate  automatically  in  the  manner 
shown  by  Helmholtz"  (Helmholtz  had  some  years 
before  discovered  the  pitch  of  the  various  vowel 
sounds),  "each  fork  interrupting,  at  every  vibration, 
a  voltaic  current — and  the  thought  occurred  to  me, 

4 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Why  should  not  the  depression  of  a  key  like  that  of  a 
piano  direct  the  interrupted  current  from  any  one  of 
these  forks  through  a  telegraph  wire  to  a  series  of 
electromagnets  operating  the  strings  of  a  piano, 
in  which  case  a  person  might  play  on  the  tuning- 
fork  piano  in  one  place  and  the  music  might  be 
audible  from  an  electromagnetic  piano  in  a  distant 
city?" 

My  recollection  of  Professor  Bell  is  very  vivid. 
I  can  see  him  now,  a  slenderly  built  man,  exceed- 
ingly quick,  but  easy  in  every  movement.  When 
we  entered  the  little  house  he  took  the  two  flights 
of  stairs  on  the  run.  It  is  dangerous  to  describe  the 
color  of  a  man's  hair  after  such  a  length  of  time,  but 
I  have  the  most  distinct  impression  that  his  hair 
was  brown  and  not  very  dark.  He  wore  the  mus- 
taches and  side  whiskers  which  were  in  vogue,  and 
they  were  of  a  lighter  shade  of  brown.  I  particularly 
remember  he  had  a  fine  complexion,  white,  but 
tinged  with  a  good  healthy  color.  One  impression 
that  invariably  comes  up,  when  I  think  of  this 
young  college  professor,  is  that  he  seemed  entirely 
unconscious  of  being  anj'thing  more  than  that. 
For  my  part,  I  am  sure  I  recognized  him  at  the  time 
as  a  wizard  of  wizards  and  wondered  then  that  he 
seemed  not  to  realize  it. 

The  telephone  is  such  a  commonplace  part  of  our 
homes  and  offices  to-day  that  one  can  hardly  realize 
what  a  magical  thing  it  seemed  to  hear  the  creator 
of  it  sei|d  the  notes  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  over  half 
a  mile  of  wire. 

I   think   the   first   public   demonstration   of   the 

5 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

telephone  was  held  in  Salem.  Perhaps  Professor 
Bell  did  realize  that  he  was  a  wizard,  after  all,  and 
it  may  have  been  for  the  justification  of  the  witches, 
who  were  so  mistreated  in  that  ancient  town,  that 
he  performed  feats  of  witchcraft  or  wizardry  before 
its  citizens.  The  symbols  of  his  invention,  as  shown 
on  a  blackboard  at  that  demonstration,  certainly 
would  have  looked  to  the  Salem  of  witchcraft  days 
sufficiently  like  the  black  art  to  have  insured  Pro- 
fessor Bell  a  ducking  in  the  bay. 

This  visit  to  Boston  on  the  trail  of  the  telephone 
was  in  behalf  of  the  Daily  Graphic,  the  first  fully 
illustrated  daily  newspaper  to  be  published  in  this 
or  any  other  country,  so  far  as  I  know.  It  was 
really  a  splendid  venture,  was  well  printed,  and 
made  a  great  hit  at  the  time.  Although  it  proved 
to  be  too  expensive  to  prove  a  lasting  financial  suc- 
cess, it  gave  a  number  of  young  artists  an  oppor- 
tunity to  try  their  wings.  I  have  only  to  name 
Arthur  B.  Frost,  Charles  J.  Taylor,  Dan  Beard,  and 
E.  W.  Kemble  to  show  what  a  school  it  was  for 
work  in  line. 

A  little  upstairs  room  on  the  Ann  Street  side  of 
Mouquin's  restaurant  was  known  as  the  Graphic 
room  in  the  'seventies.  There  around  the  table  at 
luncheon  time  an  interesting  group  was  gathered. 
From  Paris  and  Vienna  the  Graphic  people  had 
drawn  a  number  of  artists,  some  of  them  already 
well  known  in  their  specialties — Theodore  Wiist,  a 
caricaturist  of  great  ability;  Rudolph  Piguet,  por- 
trait painter  and  etcher;  Gray  Parker,  a  Parisian 
of   English   parentage;    Louis   Aubron,   an   expert 

6 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

lithographer;  and  Thure  de  Thulstrup,  just  out  of 
the  French  arm}^  At  the  table  in  Mouquin's  also 
appeared  such  unknown  young  men  as  Daniel 
Frohman,  Andrew  Miller,  Arthur  B.  Frost,  E.  W. 
Kemble,  C.  D.  Weldon,  C.  J.  Taylor,  Frank  Taylor, 
and  others  equally  obscure. 

I  well  remember  my  first  introduction  to  the 
Graphic  room.  French  people  and  French  ways 
were  new  to  me.  Even  before  we  had  finished  our 
soup  there  was  a  grand  set-to  over  something  (or 
nothing)  between  Aubron,  who  was  a  big,  sturdy 
Frenchman,  and  a  little  spidery -looking  fellow  with 
fierce  mustachios  and  a  strong  Gascon  accent. 

When  the  argument  became  overheated  the  little 
Frenchman  leaped  up  on  his  chair,  placed  both 
hands  on  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  was  apparently 
about  to  jump  down  Aubron's  throat.  Then  sud- 
denly he  collapsed  like  a  jackknife  and  calmly 
proceeded  to  eat  his  soup.  Aubron  was  a  Com- 
munist to  whom  the  atmosphere  of  Paris  was  just 
at  that  time  unwholesome. 

i^He  was  a  past  master  of  architectural  drawing 
and  lithography.  In  Paris  he  made  a  profession  of 
going  over  the  i>erspective  of  paintings.  Gerome, 
for  instance,  was  said  to  have  employed  him  in 
elaborate  perspectives.  He  was  credited  with 
having  laid  in  the  architectural  detail  of  a  number 
of  Babylonian  subjects  for  Gustave  Dore.  "I  put 
in  ze  detail;  Dore  take  him  out!"  was  the  way  he 
explained  his  work  to  me. 

Of  all  the  men  at  the  table,  Piguet  was  the  quietest. 
He  painted  some  charming  portraits  of  women  while 

7 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

over  here,  but  was  always  homesick  for  Paris  and 
soon  returned  there. 

Old-timers  who  know  their  Broadway  will  re- 
member Thomas's  Art  Gallery  and  its  caricature 
portraits  of  prominent  Americans.  I  think  it  was 
located  near  Thirtieth  Street.  Almost  all  the  cari- 
catures, life-size  as  a  rule,  were  the  work  of  Theodore 
Wiist.  For  the  Graphic  he  drew  some  very  clever 
caricature  portraits.  At  the  luncheon  table  he  was 
rather  a  saturnine  figure — never  a  word  unless  it 
flashed  out  like  a  clean  rapier  cut. 

Thure  de  Thulstrup  often  sat  at  this  table.  Over 
at  the  Graphic  art  department  he  was  showing  traits 
of  strength  which  developed  later. 

Gray  Parker  was  an  Englishman  by  blood,  but  a 
Frenchman  by  birth  and  bringing  up.  He  would 
compose  little  coaching  scenes  with  the  English 
precision  of  harness,  buckle,  and  strap,  and  accuracy 
of  proper  form,  and  then  proceed  to  draw  it  all  with 
a  bubbling  French  enthusiasm.  His  little  horses 
pranced  across  the  pages  of  the  Graphic  and  looked 
as  though  only  their  high  sense  of  propriety  pre- 
vented them  from  snorting.  Gray  liked  his  one 
small  glass  of  absinthe,  which  he  took  with  great 
precision,  and  if  he  had  that  and  endless  cigarettes 
the  rest  of  his  luncheon  did  not  matter. 

Everyone  who  used  to  read  Puck  remembers  the 

charming  drawings  which  appeared  in  that  paper 

by  C.  J.  Taylor.    It  would  surprise  most  people  to 

know  that  in  1873  Taylor  was  an  ambitious  young 

lawyer  as  well  as  an  artist.    Taylor  liked  good  food 

8 


THE  FIRST  TELEPHONE 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

and  good  company,  and  often  came  to  the  little 
Ann  Street  place  for  luncheon. 

And  then  there  was  A.  B.  Frost,  drawing  at  that 
time  for  the  Graphic.  Let  posterity  decide  whether 
A.  B.  Frost  was  the  Caran  d'Ache  of  America  or 
Caran  d'Ache  the  A.  B.  Frost  of  France.  Sure  it  is 
that  if  Caran  d'Ache  had  lived  in  New  York  he 
would  have  eaten  at  that  table. 

Another  youngster  from  the  West  came  to  the 
Ann  Street  room  later  on — E.  W.  Kemble,  whose 
learned  researches  in  Thompson  Street  have  so 
enriched  our  knowledge  of  poker. 

Newspaper  readers  with  long  memories  will  re- 
call some  delightful  humorous  drawings,  signed 
"L.  Hop,"  in  the  early  numbers  of  the  Graphic.  "L. 
Hop"  had  a  big  idea  one  day.  He  would  go  out 
and  amuse  the  Australians.  He  did,  and  the  Austra- 
lians rewarded  him  with  gold  and  fame.  For  many 
years  Mr.  L.  Hopkins  has  been  the  Thomas  Nast  of 
Australia. 

As  I  look  back  to  those  old  days  I  see  a  quaint 
figure  of  a  little  man  with  a  beautiful  forehead,  with 
brilliant  black  eyes  that  sparkled  with  humor  and 
yet  had  depths  of  sadness  lurking  in  them — Mike 
Woolf,  who  gave  us  those  funny,  pathetic  little 
street  waifs,  pictures  that  brought  smiles  to  the  lips 
and  tears  to  the  eyes,  Mike  Woolf,  who  was  the 
greatest  asset  the  Fresh  Air  Fund  ever  had. 

Mitchell,  of  Life,  told  me  that  a  very  wealthy 
woman  once  said  to  him  that  a  little  picture  of 
Mike  Woolf's  published  in  the  Christmas  number 
of  Life  cost  her  fifteen  hundred  dollars.    The  picture 

9 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

represented  two  poor  little  shivering  tbts  out  in  the 
snow,  looking  at  a  window  in  which  hung  a  large 
wreath  of  holly.  In  the  center  of  the  wreath  were  the 
letters  I.  H.  S.  One  tot  says  to  the  other,  "What 
does  I,  H.  S.  stand  for,  Jimmy?"  "Doncher  know?" 
answers  Jimmy.  "Dat  means  'I  Have  Stockings'!" 
Milady  got  out  first  her  handkerchief — and  then  her 
check  book,  being  a  practical  person. 

It  was  in  1877  that  I  went  over  to  the^  Harpers, 
there  to  work  with  Abbey,  Reinhart,  Pyle  and 
Frost,  Sol  Eytinge  and  Thomas  Nast. 

It  was  a  great  company.  Nast  at  that  time  lived 
in  Morristown,  New  Jersey,  so  that  we  saw  but 
little  of  him.  His  cartoons  were  drawn  on  the  wood 
block,  and  his  spelling  was  as  bad  as  his  general 
/  intelligence  was  great.  My  first  regular  job,  after 
it  was  discovered  that  I  could  spell,  was  to  go  over 
the  lettering  in  his  cartoons  and  correct  the  spelling. 

I  had  no  idea  of  becoming  a  cartoonist  at  that 
time,  and,  while  I  admired  the  peculiar  genius  of 
Thomas  Nast,  it  was  the  drawing  of  young  Ned 
Abbey  that  claimed  most  of  my  attention.  There 
never  was  anybody  like  Abbey;  we  all  looked  on 
him  as  something  apart.  He  was  the  most  genial, 
lovable  young  fellow  imaginable;  yet  one  felt  an 
intangible  something  which  surrounded  him  with  a 
touch  of  impenetrable  mystery.  Lafcadio  Heam 
would  describe  it  as  a  "ghostliness";  but  it  had 
nothing  ref>ellent  in  it. 

Abbey  was  making  his  first  Herrick  drawings  then. 
He  had  never  been  in  England,  but  he  seemed  to 
know  the  England  and  the  English  of  Queen  Anne's 

10 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

time  by  some  sure  instinct.  There  were  times  when 
Abbey,  in  the  midst  of  a  laughing,  joking  conversa- 
tion, would  disappear  (I  can  use  no  other  word) 
into  the  past.  One  moment  he  was  with  you,  the 
next  he  walked  with  Doctor  Goldsmith,  or  on  the 
hills  of  Devon  with  Robert  Herrick. 

Abbey  had  a  studio  on  Thirteenth  Street,  where 
he  worked  part  of  the  time.  Early  one  morning  I 
met  him  in  front  of  the  old  Union  Square  Theater 
on  Fourteenth  Street.  The  block  between  Fourth 
Avenue  and  Broadway  was  then  kno\vn  as  The 
Rialto  and  was  usually  crowded  with  gentlemen  in 
weird  clothing  who  assumed  stage  attitudes  and 
talked  into  one  another's  faces  at  close  range. 
Making  his  way  through  this  busy-seeming  throng 
of  idlers — they  probably  thought  he  was  the  prop- 
erty man's  assistant — little  Ned  Abbey  appeared, 
carrying  an  enormous  tub  out  of  which  grew  a  long 
sprig  of  English  ivy  trained  upon  a  wooden  frame. 

When  he  saw  me  his  face  broke  out  into  a  most 
cheerful  grin  while  he  told  how  a  Fourth  Avenue 
florist  had  loaned  him  the  ivy  as  a  model  for  one  of 
his  Herrick  drawings.  I  left  him  at  the  foot  of  the 
studio  stairs  (four  long  flights  were  before  him)  on 
Thirteenth  Street. 

One  of  the  extraordinary  qualities  of  Abbey  was 
his  attention  to  small  matters  of  costume,  furniture, 
and  little  background  accessories,  without  allowing 
these  details  to  hamper  his  imagination.  I  have 
seen  his  model  dressed  in  a  gown  which  he  had  had 
made  to  order,  sitting  in  a  corner  of  his  studio, 
reading  a  newspaper,  while  Abbey  was  intent  on  his 

11 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

picture,  calling  on  her  to  pose  only  when  he  wished 
to  inform  himself  on  some  little  detail.  Nobody 
else  worked  like  that. 

In  these  days,  when  no  public  event  can  happen 
without  a  battery  of  cameras  being  trained  on  its 
details,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  tell  just  how  such  a 
matter  was  handled  for  an  illustrated  paper  in  the 
'seventies  and  'eighties.  What  the  camera  does  so 
easily  to-day  the  artist  had  to  do  all  by  himself 
then.  An  illustrator  of  to-day  hardly  realizes  how 
much  he  owes  in  the  way  of  facts  to  the  instan- 
taneous photograph. 

In  the  'seventies  we  had  to  memorize  details  of 
which  there  was  perhaps  no  record  other  than  a 
hasty  sketch.  When  a  "big"  news  event  was  to  be 
pictured  one  of  us  youngsters  had  to  go  out,  armed 
only  with  pad  and  pencil,  and  gather  up  whatever 
he  could  of  the  details,  whether  it  was  of  a  proces- 
sion, reception,  celebration,  or  accident.  He  then 
brought  his  sketches  to  the  art  department,  laid  out 
a  page  or  double  page,  traced  it  roughly  on  the  box- 
wood block,  and  divided  the  jointed  block  into 
several  pieces — and  then  everybody  took  a  hand  at 
the  drawing. 

For  instance,  I  was  once  sent  to  Boston  for  Har- 
per's Weekly  and  brought  back  sketches  of  some 
historical  celebration  where  the  participants  were 
dressed  in  costumes  of  the  Revolution.  Abbey  came 
down  from  his  Thirteenth  Street  studio  and  drew 
the  foreground  figures,  while  I  filled  in  those  in  the 
middle  distance  and  background.  Old  "Dory" 
Davis,  a  veteran  "special  artist"  of  the  Civil  War, 

12 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

drew  the  architecture,  put  in  the  dome  of  the  State 
House  and  the  Sacred  Codfish  thereon.  We  used  to 
pass  the  blocks  we  were  working  on  back  and  forth 
to  one  another  to  make  the  joints,  and  I  remember 
well  how  Abbey,  as  we  worked  side  by  side,  gave  me 
many  a  quick  illuminating  insight  into  some  intricacy 
of  form.  Never  have  I  seen  a  man  with  more  deft 
skill  in  the  handling  of  a  pencil  on  the  wooden  block. 

While  in  bis  serious  work  Ned  Abbey  would  draw 
a  figure  over  and  over  a  dozen  times  and  rub  and 
scrape  out  what  looked  perfect  to  me,  yet  in  a 
"hurry-up"  job  he  bent  his  knowledge  to  the  swift, 
inevitable  line  unerringly. 

The  methods  used  in  those  days  in  producing  a 
"news"  drawing  have  passed  away  so  completely 
that  it  may  be  interesting  to  the  illustrator  of  to- 
day to  know  in  detail  just  how  we  handled  a  wood- 
block drawing.  Of  course,  it  must  be  understood 
that  many  drawings  on  wood  were  made  by  artists 
working  entirely  alone — often  very  careful  work 
carried  out  in  studios  with  models  and  accessories 
carefully  studied.  What  I  shall  endeavor  to  describe 
now  is  the  "rush"  work,  pictorial  records  of  news  of 
the  day,  such  as  the  instantaneous  photograph, 
reproduced  in  "half  tone,"  gives  to  the  public  to-day 
in  the  daily  papers. 

Before  going  into  the  exact  methods  of  drawing  on 
wood,  it  will  be  as  well  to  describe  the  wood  block 
itself.    A  double-page  block  for  Harper*s  Weekly  was    « 
usually  made  up  of  thirty-six  pieces  of  boxwood    !j 
about  one  inch  in  thickness,  cut  across  the  grain  and 
highly  polished.     The  back  of  each  piece  of  wood 

13 


/ 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

was  hollowed  out  to  admit  steel  bolts  which  ran 
through  to  the  adjoining  section,  and  when  tightened 
held  the  whole  together  in  a  single  smooth  block. 

A  very  thin  film  of  Chinese  white  was  rubbed  into 
the  surface  of  the  block  to  kill  the  warm  color  of  the 
boxwood  and  afford  a  surface  for  pencil  lines.  The 
first  step  in  making  the  illustration  was  to  draw  a 
rough  sketch  on  paper  the  exact  size  of  the  com- 
posite wood  block.  From  this  a  tracing  was  made, 
which  was  rubbed  down  reversed  on  the  block.  If 
the  subject  was  a  street  scene  the  perspective  was 
carefully  worked  out  in  the  sketch. 

After  the  tracing  on  the  block  was  completed  one 
of  the  men,  with  a  brush  and  India  ink,  laid  in  the 
main  broad  shadows.  Before  the  "figure  man"  out- 
lined his  people  or  his  horses  (no  automobiles  in 
those  days),  or  whatever  details  were  to  form  the 
main  subject  of  the  picture,  the  two,  three,  or  even 
four  men  who  were  to  work  on  the  drawing  would 
get  together  and  determine  how  deep  a  tone  was  to 
pervade  the  whole  composition.  Each  man  had  to 
carry  this  in  his  mind,  else  the  picture  when  com- 
pleted would  never  hold  together.  Many  of  these 
drawings  of  news  subjects  were  made  in  a  wash 
emphasized  by  sharp  pencil  lines,  that  being  rather 
an  old-fashioned  method  which  descended  to  us 
from  the  "slippery"  period  of  illustration.  But  as 
we  became  more  skillful  and,  I  think  I  may  say, 
more  artistic  in  our  ideas,  we  learned  to  make  our 
drawings  entirely  with  a  brush.  It  was  surprising 
how  well  a  group  of  men  used  to  working  together 
could  keep  a  composition  from  flying  to  pieces. 

U 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Where  a  figure  or  an  object  in  one  of  these  com- 
posite pictures  happened  to  cross  a  joint  the  figure 
or  object  was  finished  before  the  block  was  taken 
apart,  and  this  gave  a  clew  to  the  tone  to  be  adhered 
to.  When  any  part  of  the  drawing  was  completed, 
that  section  often  went  to  the  engraving  room  at 
once.  There  the  same  thing  was  done  in  regard  to 
objects  crossing  joints — they  were  engraved  first  so 
that  each  engraver  had  a  clew  to  the  width  of  line 
his  neighbor  was  using.  I  remember  one  drawing  I 
made  of  a  double  page,  working  alone,  in  which  I 
never  saw  the  entire  picture  together  until  it  appeared 
in  the  paper. 

Charles  Graham,  who  had  the  finest  sense  of  per- 
spective of  any  man  I  ever  knew,  made  wonderful 
architectural  drawings  on  wood.  It  was  a  pleasure  \ 
to  draw  on  the  same  block  with  him,  for  by  a  clever 
manipulation  of  light  and  shade  he  would  adapt  his 
architectural  details  to  my  figures.  Many  a  night 
out  on  the  road  we  juggled  architecture  and  figures 
back  and  forth  on  a  wood  block  under  a  single  gas 
jet  in  a  hotel  bedroom. 

I  once  made  a  rather  touching  sketch  of  little 
Charley  Graham  in  his  nightshirt,  holding  up  a 
block  close  to  a  miserable  flickering  light,  and  with 
his  skillful  left  hand  putting  on  the  finishing  touches 
to  one  of  our  joint  drawings.  All  that  is  a  thing  of 
the  past;  now  a  photographer  goes  out  with  his 
camera  and— click ! — he  has  it  all  in  half  the  wink  of 
an  eye. 

I  remember  one  day,  after  his  return  from  his  first 
visit  to  England,  Ned  Abbey  was  putting  the  fijiish- 

15 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

ing  touches  on  a  water  color,  a  picture  called  "The 
Sisters,"  which  added  greatly  to  his  reputation. 
Since  it  was  the  day  of  the  exhibition,  one  would 
naturally  have  supposed  that  his  picture  would  be 
finished  and  hung.  But  not  at  all.  I  walked  into 
his  studio  and  found  him  busily  at  work  on  the  face 
of  the  foreground  figure.  At  the  last  moment  he 
had  washed  it  out  and  was  painting  it  all  over  again 
— so  great  pains  did  he  take  with  his  finished  work. 

I  took  one  look  and  started  downstairs  again  at 
full  speed,  but  Abbey  was  too  quick  for  me.  He 
had  me  by  the  collar  in  a  moment  and  dragged  me 
up  again. 

"Are  you  good  at  painting  rugs.^^"  he  asked. 

In  the  picture  was  a  Persian  rug,  half  of  it  painted 
in  elaborate  detail,  the  other  half  barely  outlined. 
I  quickly  effaced  myself  by  diving  into  some  port- 
folios and  remained  hidden  behind  them  until  lunch 
was  announced.  Down  in  the  dining  room,  where 
Gedney  Bunce  and  another  guest  sat  at  table,  Abbey 
told  stories — told  of  his  experiences  in  London — and 
I  had  finally  to  take  him  by  the  shoulders  and  start 
him  up  the  stairs  to  his  studio. 

That  evening  at  seven-thirty  I  walked  into  the  ex- 
hibition gallery,  fearing  that  Abbey's  picture  would 
surely  be  absent;  but  there  in  its  frame,  which, 
by  the  way,  had  preceded  the  picture  by  some  hours, 
hung  the  picture,  beautiful,  finished — the  rug  with- 
out a  flaw. 

At  this  time  Stanley  Reinhart  was  living  in  Paris, 
and  it  was  not  until  some  years  afterward  that  I 
came  to  know  him.     C.  S.  Reinhart  was  a  most 

16 


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A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

distinguished  member  of  the  guild,  if  such  I  may- 
call  it,  of  American  illustrators  of  the  'eighties;  but, 
in  addition  to  that,  he  had  talents  which  assured 
him  a  welcome  wherever  he  went.  Julian  Ralph 
wrote  a  story  about  him  in  the  SuHy  which  he  called 
"An  Artist  Telling  a  Story." 

Reinhart  had  a  positive  genius  for  making  inter- 
esting stories  out  of  trifles.  As  Julian  Ralph  said: 
"When  another  person  told  a  story,  you  heard  it. 
When  Reinhart  told  a  story,  you  saw  it."  We  used 
to  beg  Reinhart  to  write,  but  he  told  me  once  that 
when  he  took  a  pen  in  his  hand  the  ink  in  it  promptly 
froze  solid.  You  see  in  that  the  pictorial  quality  of 
his  thought. 

In  the  'seventies  everybody  used  to  look  in  the 
magazines  for  a  new  story  in  verse  by  Will  Carleton. 
Carleton  was  a  country  man  who  knew  his  neigh- 
bors better  than  they  knew  themselves;  and  he 
touched  some  sore  spots  in  the  rural  character  as  no 
one,  perhaps,  had  ever  touched  them  before.  His 
"Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poorhouse"  must  have  stung 
many  a  tough  hide  like  the  cut  of  a  "black-snake" 
whip.  Carleton  became  a  good  deal  of  a  philosopher 
of  the  optimistic  school  as  he  grew  older,  and  he  had 
a  keen  wit  which  he  used  to  advantage  in  defending 
his  faith.  I  remember  we  were  walking  down  the 
Bowery  one  day  and  he  was  arguing  that  every  man, 
no  matter  how  worthless,  had  some  good  in  him.  I 
asked  him  what  good  there  was  in  a  confidence  man. 

"Just  enough  for  bait!"  he  answered. 

In  1880  came  the  Hancock  campaign.  The  Demo- 
cratic party  was  in  dire  straits.     Defeat  had  hung 

17 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

on  its  banners  in  one  campaign  after  another  for 
many  years.  The  old  party  was  fast  becoming 
mummified,  and  something  radical  had  to  be  done  to 
revive  it.  Then  some  bright  political  genius  thought 
of  Gen.  Winfield  Scott  Hancock.  Perhaps  his  war 
record  and  his  high  personal  character  would  carry 
the  party  through  to  victory.     He  was  nominated. 

About  this  time  I  dropped  in  one  morning  at  the 
art  department  of  Harper's  Weekly.  Mr.  J.  Henry 
Harper  was  expressing  his  concern  over  Mr.  Nast's 
absence — on  a  lecture  tour,  I  think — and  the  neces- 
sity of  getting  a  cartoon,  somehow,  for  the  next  issue 
of  the  Weekly. 

Up  to  that  time  I  had  done  nothing  in  that  line 
for  the  Weekly;  but  instantly  there  came  to  me  a 
picture  of  a  transfusion  of  blood  from  the  veins  of 
the  strong,  healthy  general  to  the  moribund  figure 
of  the  Democracy.  I  sketched  it  out  roughly  and 
handed  it  to  Mr.  Harper.  He  was  inclined  to  accept 
the  idea,  but  doubted  if  I  could  make  a  cartoon.  I 
wasn't  sure  myself,  but  was  willing  to  take  a  chance 
and  make  the  drawing  on  approval.  The  approval 
came  along  when  it  was  finished,  and  I  suddenly 
found  myself  a  full-fledged  cartoonist.  I  have  told 
this  incident  to  show  what  a  large  part  chance  plays 
in  our  lives. 

Up  until  that  morning  I  had  gone  placidly  along, 
illustrating  magazine  articles,  boys'  stories,  and 
doing  the  work  on  Harper's  Weekly  that  the  camera 
so  easily  performs  now— making  drawings  of  news 
events,  riots,  celebrations,  conventions,  and  what 
not.     By  a  turn  of  the  wheel  I  now  was  plunged 

18 


>    A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

into  the  whirl  of  tliought  on  pubHc  affairs — on  the 
big  poHtical  happenings  of  the  world.  It  was  like 
the  fate  of  a  boatman  who  has  been  rowing  about 
in  some  small  tributary  and  who  finds  himself  sud- 
denly carried  out  on  the  broad  surface  and  swift 
current  of  a  great  river. 


CHAPTER  II 

CARTOON  work  occupied  only  a  part  of  my 
time  at  Harpers'.  Many  were  the  news 
assignments  on  which  I  journeyed  from 
place  to  place.  Most  important  of  these  was  a  trip 
to  Washington  at  the  time  of  the  assassination  of 
President  Garfield.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning 
after  the  President  was  shot  I  met  by  appointment 
Mr.  Bell,  a  well-known  photographer  of  Washington, 
at  the  Arlington  Hotel.  The  Harpers  had  depended 
on  him  to  furnish  a  photograph  of  Guiteau,  the 
assassin.  Mr.  Bell  threw  up  both  hands  as  we  met 
in  the  corridor. 

"No  use,"  he  cried.  "Attorney-General  Wayne 
MacVeagh  declares  that  no  photograph  shall  ever 
be  made  of  Guiteau.  He  positively  refuses  to  allow 
us,  or  anyone  else,  to  see  Guiteau  in  the  jail." 

It  so  happened  that,  late  the  night  before,  on  my 
arrival  at  the  hotel,  an  artist  whom  I  knew  and  who 
represented  the  Daily  Graphic  of  New  York  showed 
me  a  hasty  pencil  sketch  of  Guiteau,  which  he  had 
made  at  the  jail  when  the  assassin  was  brought  in. 
That  was  handle  enough  for  me,  and  in  spite  of  Bell's 
protests  that  it  was  useless,  I  dragged  the  unwill- 
ing photographer  over  to  Mr.  MacVeagh's  house  at 
that  unseasonable  hour. 

An  old  colored  butler  assured  us  that  the  Attorney- 

20 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

General  had  not  yet  arisen;  but  I  begged  for  a  mo- 
ment's interview,  and  in  a  couple  of  minutes  Mr. 
MacVeagh  appeared  at  the  door  in  his  dressing  gown. 
He  was,  very  pardonably,  not  in  the  most  amiable 
of  moods. 

I  stated  my  case  briefly  and  asked  if  Harper's 
Weekly,  a  national  paper,  was  to  be  discriminated 
against  in  favor  of  the  Daily  Graphic,  a  local  paper 
of  New  York.  Was  an  inadequate  sketch  to  go  out 
as  a  portrait  of  the  assassin,  when  we  had  Mr.  Bell 
ready  to  make  a  true  likeness  of  Guiteau,  which 
everyone  in  the  country  wished  to  see? 

Mr.  MacVeagh  interrupted  my  little  speech  to 
say  very  cuttingly  that  he  did  not  believe  a  word  of 
my  story  of  the  Graphic  artist. 

I  straightened  up  and  asked  him  point-blank  if 
he  believed  for  an  instant  that  Harper's  Weekly 
would  send  to  him  a  man  who  was  a  liar.  He  looked 
me  in  the  eye  for  almost  a  minute  and  then  very 
courteously  said  he  was  sure  they  would  not.  Inside 
of  ten  minutes  he  had  given  me  a  letter  to  District- 
Attorney  Corkhill,  authorizing  him  to  admit  Mr. 
Bell  to  the  jail  for  the  purpose  of  photographing 
the  assassin.  That  was  one  of  the  cases  where  a 
quick,  sharp  fight  won  the  day.  At  other  times 
entirely  different  tactics  had  to  be  employed. 

Several  days  after  obtaining  the  photograph  of 
Guiteau,  I  went  down  to  Washington  again  to  get 
pictures  in  and  about  the  White  House,  where  Presi- 
dent Garfield  lay  hovering  between  life  and  death. 
This  was  a  very  delicate  matter  and  had  to  be 
handled  with  great  care.     At  the  Arlington  I  met 

21 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Frank  Bennett,  then  a  young  clerk  at  the  hotel  desk. 
In  later  days  he  was  known  and  trusted  by  Senators, 
diplomats,  and  Presidents,  and  was  probably  the 
depositary  of  more  political  secrets  than  any  man  in 
Washington.  When  I  met  him  he  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  boy,  but  with  a  wise  head  on  his  young 
shoulders. 

He  suggested  a  plan  of  action  which  was  success- 
fully carried  out. 

'  I  sent  a  messenger  boy  to  each  of  the  physicians 
and  surgeons  attending  the  President,  asking  each 
for  his  photograph  for  Harper's  Weekly.  I  also  sent 
messengers  to  several  important  officials  of  the 
White  House  staff,  with  the  same  request.  This 
would  furnish  me  with  the  portraits  I  needed,  and 
at  the  same  time  gave  me  a  favorable  inti-oduction 
to  all  these  gentlemen.    I  obtained  the  photographs. 

Then  I  went  to  Mr.  Stanley  Brown,  the  President's 
private  secretary,  and  made  my  plea.  I  dwelt  on  the 
natural  and  sympathetic  desire  of  the  public  to  laiow 
the  exact  surroundings  of  the  President  in  his  fight 
for  life.  I  reminded  him  that,  in  any  case,  pictures 
would  be  printed  in  less  conscientious  publications 
than  Harper  s  Weekly  and  this,  being  a  matter  of 
history,  should  be  accurately  portrayed.  I  asked 
Mr.  Brown  to  try  to  obtain  the  consent  of  the 
physicians  and  of  the  President's  family  for  me  to 
make  a  sketch  of  the  sick  room.  That  was  on 
Saturday.  Mr.  Brown  thought  it  hardly  possible, 
but  said  he  would  do  all  he  could  to  obtain  permis- 
sion for  me. 

Late  that  night  I  saw  the  private  secretary  again. 

22 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

He  told  me  to  come  to  the  White  House  at  eight 
o'clock  the  next  morning,  before  the  usual  throng  of 
reporters  and  others  arrived,  and  said  he  would  see 
what  could  be  done.  I  was  a  very  early  visitor  at 
Mr.  Brown's  office  on  Sunday  morning,  and  sat  there 
for  an  hour.  A  few  stragglers  dropped  in  from  time 
to  time.  At  last  an  inner  door  opened  a  crack  and 
Mr.  Brown  motioned  to  me  to  come  over.  We  dis- 
app>eared  into  the  Cabinet  room  and  thence  passed 
into  the  President's  private  quarters. 

I  was  ushered  into  a  corridor  from  which  there 
opened,  much  in  the  nature  of  a  large  alcove,  the 
room  in  which  the  President  lay  sleeping.  Several 
of  the  physicians  were  grouped  about  the  room,  and 
Mrs.  Susan  Edson,  the  nurse,  sat  beside  the  bed  with 
a  large  palm-leaf  fan,  which  she  held  ready  to  drop 
in  front  of  the  patient's  face  in  case  he  awakened. 
I  had  my  sketch  pad  out  instantly,  and  I  can  remem- 
ber no  half  hour  of  my  life  when  I  put  so  much  on 
paper.  Mrs.  Garfield  and  her  eldest  son,  Harry, 
looked  for  a  moment  over  my  shoulder  as  I  worked, 
and  that,  I  felt,  gave  me  just  the  touch  of  author- 
ity which  was  needed. 

I  laid  out  my  drawing  for  the  WeeMyy  double- 
page  size,  that  day  at  the  Arlington,  young  Frank 
Bennett  rejoicing  with  me  at  the  success  of  our  little 
enterprise  in  diplomacy. 

At  nine  o'clock  on  Monday  morning  I  stepped  into 
the  art  department  of  Harper''s  Weekly.  Mr.  Parsons, 
the  art  superintendent,  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  exclaimed,  "why  did  you  leave 
Washington.'^    Postmaster-General  James  is  working 

22 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

to  get  you  into  the  White  House,  and  we  are  sure  he 
will  be  able  to  do  so  before  this  week  is  over.  You 
must  return  at  once!"  For  answer,  of  course,  I  un- 
rolled my  bundle  of  sketches  made  at  the  President's 
bedside.  I  don't  recollect  exactly  what  Mr.  Parsons 
did,  but  he  was  an  impulsive  old  gentleman  and  my 
impression  is  that  he  hugged  me. 

The  controversy  which  arose  in  February,  1920, 
over  the  right  of  the  Cabinet  to  meet  while  President 
Wilson  lay  ill  and  unable  to  transact  the  public 
business  during  the  fall  and  winter  months  of  the 
previous  year,  reminds  me  that  I  "sat  in"  at  a 
Cabinet  meeting  one  hot  July  night  in  1881,  while 
President  Garfield  lay  helpless  and  hardly  conscious 
in  his  bed,  a  few  yards  distant. 

I  drew  a  picture  that  night,  from  life,  of  James 
G.  Blaine,  Robert  Lincoln,  Kirkwood  of  Iowa,  and 
other  members  of  the  Cabinet,  which  was  published 
in  Harper's  Weekly  under  the  title  of  "An  Anxious 
Night  in  the  Cabinet." 

It  was  considered,  at  that  time,  a  perfectly  proper 
proceeding  for  members  of  the  Cabinet  to  meet  in- 
formally under  the  extraordinary  circumstances;  I 
never  heard  the  propriety  of  it  even  discussed. 

I  remember  particularly  that  a  bust  of  Abraham 
Lincoln  occupied  a  place  over  the  door  leading  to  the 
private  secretary's  offices,  and  that  Robert  Lincoln 
stood  directly  beneath  it.  No  one  sat  down  at  the 
council  table.  Everyone  was  in  a  state  of  nervous 
tension  and  walked  about  the  Cabinet  room,  gather- 
ing from  time  to  time  around  Mr.  Blaine,  who  was 
generally  the  magnet  wherever  he  appeared  in  those 

£4 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

days.  In  an  interview  published  in  the  New  York 
Times  of  February  16,  1920,  Mr.  Robert  Lincoln  said 
that  no  formal  meetings  of  the  Cabinet  were  held 
during  the  period  when  Garfield  lay  helpless;  but 
he  also  said  that  the  matter  of  the  President's  pos- 
sible disability  to  perform  the  duties  of  his  office  was 
discussed  by  members  of  the  Cabinet,  together  with 
the  pKJssibility  of  the  Vice-President  having  to  assume 
those  duties  in  his  place. 

The  sun  beat  down  pitilessly  in  those  July  days 
and  the  intense  heat  penetrated  to  the  sick  room  of 
the  President.  Public  sympathy  was  so  wrought  upon 
by  the  suspense  of  his  long  fight  for  life  that  all  sorts 
of  suggestions  poured  into  the  White  House  to  better, 
if  possible,  his  chances  for  recovery  or  to  mitigate  his 
discomforts. 

One  morning  the  driveway  from  Jackson  Square 
was  blocked  with  ice  wagons;  some  one  had  sug- 
gested filling  the  basement  floor  with  ice.  After  it 
was  filled,  no  effect  from  the  piles  of  ice  was  apparent 
even  a  few  feet  distant.  Another  suggestion  was 
made  to  pour  streams  of  water  over  the  ice  in  order 
to  start  the  cool  air  upward.  Inside  of  five  min- 
utes two  fire  engines  were  at  work  spraying  the  ice. 
Very  little  real  help  came  from  the  many  suggestions 
sent  in,  but  they  served,  at  any  rate,  to  express 
the  emotion  of  the  people. 

One  day  as  I  was  leaving  the  grounds  an  elderly 
man  stopped  me  at  the  White  House  gate  to  inquire — 
everyone  inquired  of  everyone  else  in  those  anxious 
days — for  the  latest  news  of  the  President's  condi- 

25 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

tion.  We  fell  into  conversation  and  I  saw  a  curious 
expression  steal  over  his  face  as  he  said: 

"I  was  a  treasury  clerk  during  the  war,  and  of 
course  this  brings  back  the  time  when  Lincoln  was 
assassinated  and  the  terrible  days  that  followed;  but 
I  had  one  experience  with  Mr.  Lincoln  that  comes 
to  me  always  with  a  picture  of  his  old,  baggy,  black 
suit,  his  rusty  tall  hat,  and  his  whimsical  smile. 

"As  I  said,  I  was  a  young  treasury  clerk,  and  in 
addition  to  my  duties  in  the  Treasury  Building  I 
belonged  to  the  Home  Guard  and  was  liable  to  be 
called  out  for  guard  duty  after  office  hours  at  any 
time.  One  night  I  had  arranged  to  go  to  a  ball  and 
had  arrayed  myself  in  my  best  claw-hammer,  my 
most  immaculate  vest,  and  a  silk  hat.  I  was  about 
to  leave  the  house  when  a  call  for  guard  duty  came. 
No  time  for  a  change  of  raiment — but  one  thing  to 
do,  shoulder  my  musket  and  march  all  night  in  front 
of  the  Treasury  Building! 

"In  the  early  gray  dawn  I  saw  the  long,  sham- 
bling figure  of  the  President  coming  down  the  White 
House  walk.  He  had  his  hands  folded  behind  his 
back  and  his  head  was  bowed.  Evidently  he  was  out 
to  do  a  little  quiet  thinking  by  himself.  He  ap- 
proached, and  when  he  was  still  a  few  feet  away  I 
stiffened  up  in  true  military  form  and  presented  arms 
to  the  commander  in  chief  of  the  arlny  and  navy  of 
the  United  States. 

"Mr.  Lincoln  stopped,  looked  at  me  carefully,  and 
then  inquired  what  regiment  I  belonged  to.  I  felt  a 
good  deal  flustered,  but  managed  to  reply  that  I  was 
treasury-clerk  So-and-so  called  for  guard  duty  in 

26 


A     WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

such-and-such  a  company  and  regiment  of  the  Home 
Guard. 

"The President  looked  at  my  top  hat,  at  my  patent- 
leather  pumps,  my  claw-hammer  coat,  and  my  old 
army  musket,  and  he  said,  'Well,  young  man,  I  did 
not  wish  to  be  too  inquisitive,  but  I  can't  get  used 
to  all  these  new  uniforms.'" 

In  the  nineteenth  century  there  were  some  very 
violent  prejudices  raging  up  and  down  the  land 
which  seem  happily  to  have  faded  from  view  in  the 
twentieth. 

There  was  a  very  bitter  gentleman  named  Eugene 
Lawrence  who  used  to  write  unkind  things  about  the 
Catholic  Church  for  Harper  s  Weekly  when  I  first 
went  to  Franklin  Square.  It  was  the  fashion  then, 
and  had  been  for  years,  to  take  strong  sides  on  sec- 
tarian questions  and  to  believe  the  devil  was  on  the 
side  of  anyone  who  disagreed  with  you.  I  am  glad 
to  say  that  this  attitude  on  the  part  of  the  Weekly 
was  changing  even  then,  and  soon  a  more  liberal  view 
took  its  place. 

On  a  certain  day  in  the  spring  an  ancient  pagan 
custom  of  going  up  to  a  high  place  at  daybreak  and 
singing  a  song  of  praise  as  the  sun  came  up  is  still 
observed  by  some  of  the  people  at  Paterson,  New 
Jersey.  This  custom  is  so  strikingly  similar  to  the 
Easter  ceremony  observed  by  the  Moravian  Church 
at  Bethlehem,  Pennsylvania,  that  I  have  no  doubt 
both  have  the  same  origin  in  the  dim  past  and  that 
back  in  the  mountains  of  eastern  Europe  an  old 
pagan  ceremony  was  grafted  on  to  the  new  religion. 
Just  outside  Paterson  is  a  "mountain"  ending  on 

27 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

its  easterly  side  in  an  abrupt  cliff  which  overlooks 
the  city.  Here  the  people  assemble,  sometimes  many 
thousands  of  them,  to  celebrate  the  coming  of  the 
spring — or  to  worship  the  sun,  perhaps,  if  the  thought 
down  deep  in  their  subconscious  minds  could  be 
divined. 

On  one  occasion  of  this  kind  some  of  the  great 
crowd  of  people  who  had  assembled  aroused  the  ire 
of  an  eccentric  old  farmer  who  lived  alone  in  a  little 
stone  house  on  top'  of  the  mountain,  and  he  got  out 
his  shotgun  and  fired  into  the  crowd,  slightly  wound- 
ing a  boy,  I  think.  At  any  rate,  enough  was  done  to 
start  a  riot  and  every  window  pane  in  the  farmer's 
house  was  smashed.  Some  of  his  neighbors  came  to 
the  rescue  and  there  was  a  beautiful  "shindy."  The 
old  man  was  badly  mauled  as  he  was  being  dragged 
away  by  his  friends;  and  at  last  he  and  they  all  took 
refuge  in  another  farmhouse  half  a  mile  distant. 

A  crowd  once  angered,  as  this  one  was,  becomes 
dangerous  very  quickly.  Some  wise  person,  realizing 
this,  slipped  down  the  mountain  and  made  for  the 
house  of  an  old  Irish  priest  who,  he  felt,  was  the  only 
man  able  to  quell  the  riot. 

It  seemed  to  me,  when  I  heard  of  how  the  old 
priest  handled  the  affair,  that  here  was  a  good  story 
for  Harper's  Weekly.  I  liked  the  idea  of  a  picture  in 
Harper's  Weekly  favoring  a  Catholic  priest,  and  pro- 
posed it  as  the  subject  for  a  picture  and  a  story. 

When  I  walked  up  the  front  steps  of  the  priest's 
house  in  Paterson  it  was  with  considerable  doubt 
as  to  my  reception.  In  the  hall  was  a  long  bench, 
and  on  it  sat  a  row  of  people  who  had  business  with 

28 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

the  good  father.  The  door  was  open  into  the  priest's 
reception  room.  I  was  told  by  the  attendant  to  take 
a  seat  on  the  bench  and  await  my  turn. 

Then  I  heard  the  tales  of  woe  that  came  to  that 
supreme  court  to  be  settled.  The  poor  and  the 
ignorant  came  there  to  have  their  poverty  relieved 
or  their  thinking  done  for  them — their  little  daily 
problems  solved  by  a  wise  old  head  and  a  kindly 
old  heart. 

As  I  sat  on  the  bench  I  learned  what  a  real  priest 
is  and  means  to  his  parish.  From  the  priest's  room 
I  heard  an  indistinct  murmur,  with  interjections  at 
every  few  words — "And,  oh.  Father!"  and  more 
woeful  accents. 

Then  the  old  priest's  words  rang  out  sharp  and 
clear:  "And  it's  drunk  you  were,  and  bate  your  wife 
who  bore  your  children!  God  forgive  you!  And 
you've  lost  your  job  at  the  lumberyard.  You  well 
deserve  it,  and  if  it  wasn't  for  your  wife  and  chil- 
dren, never  a  hand  would  I  lift  to  get  you  back.  Go 
home,  shame  to  you!  and  be  ready  to  work  Monday 
morning.  Good  day."  And  out  came  a  shamefaced 
man  and  shuffled  down  the  front  steps. 

Then  in  went  a  weeping  woman. 

"Your  son's  run  away,  Mrs.  Mulcahey?  How 
old  is  he.'^  .  .  .  Twelve.  Hum!  Here,  Johnson,  get 
me  the  paper.  .  .  .  Twelve  years  old.  ...  I  thought 
so.  The  circus  was  here  yesterday — shows  in  Newark 
to-day.  Go  home,  Mrs.  Mulcahey.  I'll  have  your 
son  back  to-morrow.    Good  day!" 

And  Mrs.  Mulcahey  came  out  with  smiles  break- 
ing through  her  tears.     Would  her  son  be  home 

29 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

again  to-morrow?  Of  course!  Hadn't  she  the  priest's 
word  for  it? 

Then  one  or  two  went  in  whose  troubles  and  the 
solutions  therefor  didn't  reach  me.  Only  one  man 
remained  with  me  on  the  bench,  and  he  was  wiping 
his  eyes  with  a  big  red  handkerchief,  every  now  and 
then  heaving  a  weary  sigh — evidently  a  very  sad 
case.  As  the  sound  of  the  last  sharp  "Good  day!" 
reached  him  he  pulled  himself  together  and  took 
his  turn. 

I  heard  the  old  priest  give  an  exclamation.  "Now 
ye  don't  tell  me,  Dick,  she's  run  away  at  last!  I 
feared  it,  but  I  thought  the  baby  might  hold  her 
a  bit." 

Then  the  man's  voice:  "No,  Father,  and  the  baby 
but  three  months  old,  and  Jinny  has  run  away  an' 
the  babe  cryin'  for  milk!" 

"Never  mind,  man,  never  mind;  'tis  good  rid- 
dance. A  woman  who'd  abandon  her  child  as  well 
as  a  decent  man  is  beyond  thought.  But  the  child! 
How  long  since  it  was  fed?  .  .  .  Yes,  it  must  have 
milk.  Let  us  see;  Mary  Clancy  is  a  fine,  strapping 
young  woman  with  a  young  child  and  a  fresh  breast. 
I'll  send  her  down  to  your  babe  in  half  an  hour. 
Good  day!" 

It  was  my  turn. 

I  moved  to  the  door  and  looked  in.  There  in  a  big 
chair  sat  a  tall,  straight,  old  man  with  a  shock  of 
white  hair  and  an  eye — such  an  eye!  sharp  as  an 
eagle's,  yet  kindly,  too. 

Only  those  who  know  how  violent  were  the  preju- 

30 


A  WIZARD'S  BLACK  ART  IN  SALEM 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

dices  of  that  day  can  appreciate  how  carefully  I 
had  to  make  my  approach. 

"Father,"  I  said,  "you  receive  many  confessions, 
and  before  I  state  my  business  I  must  make  mine; 
then  you  can  determine  whether  or  not  you  wish  to 
hear  my  errand.  I  come  to  you  from  Harper's 
Weekly." 

"Hum!  That  is  indeed  far  from  a  recommendation 
to  a  priest  of  the  Roman  CathoHc  Church.  But  you 
have  a  friendly  look.    Go  on!" 

"Father,"  I  went  on,  "when  I  heard  of  what  you 
did  yesterday  up  on  the  mountain  I  said  to  our  art 
editor:  'Why  can't  we  have  a  picture  of  that.^^  I 
would  like  to  draw  a  picture  and  print  a  story  in 
Harper's  Weekly  favoring  a  Catholic  priest.  We've 
had  enough  on  the  other  side.' 

"Our  art  editor,  who  is  a  broad-minded  man,  said, 
'Go  ahead  and  get  the  picture  and  the  story.'  I 
have  been  all  over  the  ground  up  on  the  mountain 
and  have  talked  with  the  people  up  there  who  saw 
the  riot,  and  all  I  need  is  your  story  to  complete  it." 

"Well,  my  young  friend,"  said  the  old  priest,  "I 
think  you  are  the  first  person  who  has  proposed  to 
say  something  nice  about  us  in  your  paper  and  it 
isn't  for  me  to  rebuff  a  friend;  but  my  part  in  the 
affair  on  the  mountain  was  but  a  trifle." 

I  had  a  hard  time  getting  from  him  the  details  of 
his  rescue  of  the  besieged  farmer  out  of  the  hands 
of  the  mob,  but  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect  this  was 
his  story. 

"The  people  were  all  up  on  the  hill,  worshiping 
God  according  to  their  lights,  and  somebody  tres- 

31 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

passed  on  that  crazy  old  man's  little  farm  near  the 
cliff — at  least,  so  it  seemed  to  his  poor  cracked 
brain;  and  he  got  out  his  shotgun  and  fired  into  the 
crowd.  It  takes  mighty  little  show  of  blood  to  set 
a  crowd  of  people  wild,  and  the  farmer  was  a  lucky 
man  that  he  wasn't  torn  to  pieces  before  he  took 
refuge  in  the  farmhouse  of  a  neighbor.  Word  came 
to  me  that  the  farmhouse  where  he  was  hidden 
was  likely  to  be  set  fire  to  or  torn  down  and  murder 
committed.  I  hired  a  carriage  and  drove  up  to 
where  the  crowd  was  massed  about  the  house.  In- 
side were  the  old  farmer  and  several  of  his  neighbors. 
The  windows  were  being  broken  by  stones  showered 
in  by  the  mob,  and  the  farmers  were  threatening 
to  use  their  shotguns  on  the  crowd  if  this  weren't 
stopped.  I  got  my  carriage  slowly  up  close  to  the 
front  door,  edging  my  way  in.  The  driver  and  I  got 
a  few  clips  with  stray  stones,  but  nothing  serious, 
and  I  went  inside  and  persuaded  the  old  farmer 
that  his  only  chance  was  to  come  with  me.  I  knew 
my  cloth  would  partly  protect  us  even  from  an  angry 
multitude.  When  we  opened  the  front  door,  how- 
ever, and  the  crowd  saw  what  I  was  about  to  do,  a 
shower  of  stones  greeted  us;  but  I  sheltered  the 
poor  old  fellow  as  well  as  possible  and  we  reached 
the  carriage. 

"By  a  plentiful  application  of  the  lash  we  got 
started,  and  a  stone  or  two  striking  the  horses  kept 
them  going  in  spite  of  the  hindrance  of  the  crowd, 
who  followed  us,  threatening  to  take  my  passenger 
out  and  hang  him  to  the  nearest  tree.  I  stood  up 
in  the  carriage  and  talked  to  them  until  we  got  clear. 

32 


A     WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Then  they  suddenly  started  back  to  cut  us  ofT  as  we 
swung  back  to  the  road  leading  into  Paterson;  but 
there  is  where  I  played  them  a  scurvy  trick,  for  I 
whipped  around  into  a  lane  and  took  the  main  road 
again  for  Montclair." 

From  the  people  who  saw  the  whole  thing  I  learned 
that  the  old  priest  had  a  much  more  dangerous  and 
difficult  task  getting  clear  with  the  crazy  farmer 
than  one  would  gather  from  his  description,  and  that 
midoubtedly  his  priestly  robes  hid  many  sharp 
wounds  from  the  stones  showered  on  him  by  the 
mob.  At  any  rate,  he  was  a  splendid  old  man  and 
well  deserves  a  place  among  those  "worth  while." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  pursuit  of  news  pictures  carries  an  artist 
into  little  intimate  associations,  for  a  day  or 
two  at  a  time,  with  all  sorts  of  people,  and 
it  is  surprising  how  much  alike  all  people  are  at  close 
range.  They  are  just  "folks"  when  you  get  to  know 
them. 

One  very  hot  summer  day  I  found  myself  seated 
at  dinner  in  the  dining  tent  of  Barnum's  circus. 
My  table  companions  were  Mr.  Bailey,  then  pro- 
prietor of  the  show,  and  George  Starr,  his  business 
manager.  The  circus  had  opened  for  a  two  or  three 
days'  stay  at  Rochester,  and  I  found  the  show  people 
about  as  worth  while  as  any  men  and  women  I  had 
ever  met.  Mr.  Bailey  was  a  man  who  had  every 
detail  of  the  business  at  his  fingers'  ends.  At  one 
moment  I  saw  him  teaching  a  new  canvas  hand  a 
number  of  rope  knots;  then  he  spent  half  an  hour 
rehearsing  a  young  Englishman,  who  was  doing  a 
"gentleman  rider"  act,  in  the  duties  of  an  under- 
study to  the  ringmaster. 

A  heavy  storm  had  come  up  during  the  afternoon 
performance  and  made  a  swamp  of  the  grounds,  so 
he  sent  wagons  to  a  sawmill  and  had  a  sawdust  path 
ready,  when  the  audience  filed  out,  across  to  the 
road.     Nothing  escaped  his  attention. 

A  hostler  came  in  to  apologize  for  having  had  a 

34 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

horse  shod  at  a  blacksmith  shop  in  the  town  after 
the  animal  had  cast  a  shoe  on  a  cobblestone  street  a 
long  distance  from  the  circus.  To  have  anyone  but 
the  circus  blacksmith  touch  his  horses'  feet,  I  was 
told,  always  put  Mr.  Bailey  in  a  rage.  The  frog  of 
a  horse's  foot,  Mr.  Bailey  maintained,  should  not 
be  pared,  as  is  generally  done  hy  blacksmiths.  He 
contended  it  should  be  left  in  its  natural  state  to 
take  up  the  weight  of  the  horse  and  absorb  the 
shock  when  moving. 

All  day  long  and  far  into  the  night  the  showman 
watched  every  move  of  the  complicated  machine 
which  he  controlled. 

Mr.  Bailey  had  entertained  an  officer  of  the 
United  States  army  on  the  road  for  three  or  four 
weeks  some  time  before  I  visited  the  circus.  This 
officer  was  detailed  by  the  War  Department  to  study 
the  circus  methods  of  transportation  by  rail  and 
wagon. 

"He  was  an  intelligent  man,"  said  Mr.  Bailey, 
"and  I  was  glad  to  give  him  all  the  information 
possible.  It  was  flattering  to  us  and  I  hope  will  be 
useful  to  the  army,  but  I  have  my  doubts  whether 
they  will  be  able  to  follow  our  ways.  You  see,  we 
have  no  red  tape  here.  I  am  the  absolute  tsar.  I 
am  not  a  general  who  has  to  give  his  order  to  a 
colonel,  who  passes  it  along  to  a  captain,  he  to  a 
lieutenant,  and  he  to  a  sergeant,  who  finally  has  a 
private  execute  it. 

"If  no  private  is  available  for  the  moment  in  my 
establishment  I  can  order  my  first  assistant  to  do 
the  private's  work,  or,  if  no  assistant  is  about,  I  can 

35 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

do  it  myself.    Now  the  show  business  and  the  army 
business  are  quite  different." 

An  old  showman,  a  driver  whom  I  came  in  contact 
with  one  day  while  with  the  circus,  gave  me  some 
illuminating  views  of  the  "tsar."  He  was  talking 
with  a  citizen  who  had  formerly  been  on  the  road. 

"No,  Tom,  'tain't  like  the  old  times  when  you 
could  stop  along  the  road  an'  pick  up  a  load  of  good 
dry  hick'ry  cordwood  for  the  cook  and  mosey 
along  with  it,  sayin'  nothin'  to  nobody;  or  go 
up  to  a  sawmill  and  fill  up  with  good  clean 
sawdust  for  the  hoss  stable  and  give  the  sawmill 
man  the  laugh.  Why,  yistiday,  when  it  rained,  I 
had  to  pay  out  good  hard  cash  for  three  or  four 
loads  up  to  the  sawmill  when  they  wasn't  a  soul 
about  the  place  to  stop  me,  an'  I  had  to  hunt  up  a 
feller  to  pay  it  to.  Bailey  'ain't  got  the  heart  of  a 
showman.  What's  good  wages  to  a  man  if  y'  can't 
cop  nothin'  off  as  y'  go  along.'*" 

As  we  sat  at  the  dinner  table  Mr.  Bailey  seemed 
perfectly  at  his  ease,  casting  off  the  cares  of  his  great 
organization  and  carrying  on  a  lively  conversation. 
He  had  many  questions  to  ask  me  about  the  Harper 
publications,  but  particularly  he  wanted  to  know 
all  about  George  William  Curtis. 

"You  know  George  William  Curtis?  You  have 
talked  to  him?  Shaken  him  by  the  hand?  Well, 
well!  that  is  a  great  privilege."  At  that  time  Mr. 
Curtis  was  writing  the  "Easy  Chair"  in  the  Maga- 
zine and  the  leaders  in  the  Weekly,  and  I  told  Mr. 
Bailey  how  he  used  to  come  in  on  Thursdays  and 
write   his   Weekly   editorials   up   in   the   composing 

86 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

room,  sitting  on  a  little  bench  close  to  an  old  printer 
who  was  busy  at  his  case  setting  up  type;  how  all 
the  typesetters  up  there  were  his  friends,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  he  was  popularly  supposed  to  be  of 
rather  an  exclusive  turn  of  mind. 

"When  you  see  Mr.  Curtis,"  Mr.  Bailey  said  to 
me,  "I  wish  you  would  tell  him  that  a  rough  old 
showman"  (Mr.  Bailey  was  far  from  filling  his  de- 
scription of  himself)  "looks  forward  to  the  'Easy 
Chair'  as  a  treat  every  month,  and  when  the  Maga- 
zine is  due  sends  for  it  at  once,  in  whatever  town  he 
happens  to  be  showing.  I  don't  know  whether  this 
will  interest  him,  but  it  will  inform  him  as  to  the 
wide  audience  he  reaches  and,  I  think,  helps  to 
civilize." 

It  was  indeed,  as  Mr.  Bailey  said,  a  privilege  to 
know  George  William  Curtis,  and  a  good  deal  of  an 
education  as  well.  He  and  Mr.  Charles  Parsons,  art 
superintendent  of  the  Hari>er  publications,  were  great 
friends  and  had  many  things  in  common. 

Mr.  Joseph  Pennell  has  said  to  me  more  than  once 
that  the  growth  of  real  and  vital  American  art 
started  in  the  department  of  JVIr.  Parsons  in  Franklin 
Square. 

While  Charles  Parsons  had  neither  the  technical 
training  nor  the  ability  to  do  great  things  in  art 
himself,  he  had  a  wonderful  intuition  and  apprecia- 
tion of  what  others  could  accomplish.  He  saw  far 
beyond  his  little  environment  and,  with  a  sure 
vision,  pointed  out  the  right  paths  to  be  pursued 
by  the  young  men  in  his  charge.  Abbey  and  Rein- 
hart  and  Pyle  have  over  and  again  testified  to  their 

37 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

indebtedness  to  him  for  encouragement  and  inspi- 
ration. No  harder  taskmaster,  when  you  were  going 
through  the  trying-out  process,  could  be  found  than 
Charles  Parsons.  "Old  boys"  who  read  this  will 
recall  how  Japhet,  in  Captain  Marry  at 's  story, 
learned  the  "rudiments"  of  pharmacy  by  grinding 
medicine  with  a  pestle  and  mortar  day  after  day, 
from  morning  till  night.  So  it  was  in  Mr.  Parsons's 
art  department.  When  a  youngster  entered  it  all 
the  mechanical,  uninteresting  work  of  the  place  fell 
to  his  lot.  No  star  parts  were  given  to  him  to  fill, 
and  all  the  time  old  Charles  Parsons  was  watching 
him. 

Only  a  boy  who  had  no  "quitter's"  blood  in  him 
was  of  the  stuff  Charles  cared  to  encourage.  I  re- 
member when  I  first  went  to  Franklin  Square  I 
used  to  try  to  tempt  Mr.  Parsons  with  subjects 
picked  up  in  the  streets  at  lunch  time.  Perhaps  I 
might  get  a  half  page  to  draw.  But,  no,  back  I 
was  put  at  the  hardest  hack  work.  That  went  on 
until  one  day  I  stumbled  across  a  penny  restaurant 
in  the  slums — the  first  started  in  New  York.  It  was 
a  novel  subject,  and  I  was  given  a  page  block  of 
good  smooth  boxwood  on  which  to  make  my  drawing. 
A  young  actor  given  a  speaking  part  for  the  first 
time  would  know  my  emotions.  I  thought,  "Now 
I  am  a  star;  my  fortune  is  made."  But  when  the 
page  was  finished,  back  I  went  to  my  old  work, 
putting  in  backgrounds,  laying  out  perspectives — 
the  old  grind.  This  continued  for  a  whole  year,  with 
an  occasional  respite  when  I  broke  into  the  Weekly 
with  some  little  subject.   Then  came  the  "Runaway 

38 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Assignment,"  the  story  of  which  is  told  in  another 
place. 

When  I  began  this  chapter  I  intended  to  devote 
it  to  Mr.  Curtis,  but  everyone  already  knows  what 
Mr.  Curtis  was  and  what  he  accomplished.  Mr. 
Parsons's  case  was  different.  He  worked  in  the 
shadow  of  the  men  he  did  so  much  to  help.  We 
have  all  seen  the  results  of  his  fine  ideals  and  prac- 
tical methods,  but  only  a  few  of  us  know  the  source. 
Mr.  Curtis  appreciated  the  beautiful  idealism  of 
the  man,  but  I  doubt  if  he  or  anyone  outside  of  the 
little  group  of  artists  who  received  their  early  train- 
ing from  him  ever  knew  what  a  really  great  man 
Charles  Parsons  was. 

Mr.  Curtis's  day  at  Franklin  Square  was  Thurs- 
day. After  I  began  making  cartoons  for  the  Weekly 
it  was  my  privilege  to  have  a  little  talk  with  him  up 
in  the  composing  room,  back  of  the  old  typesetter's 
case.  It  was  there  that  I  first  realized  how  different 
is  the  strategy  of  the  cartoon  from  the  editorial. 
The  cartoon  makes  a  frontal  attack.  To  be  suc- 
cessful it  must  be  one  grand  smash,  while  the  editorial 
can  attack  from  all  sides — advance,  retreat,  side- 
step, and  get  in  a  dozen  raps  before  it  is  through. 
For  that  reason  I  used  to  get  from  Mr.  Curtis  a 
great  deal  of  political  information  that  was  valuable 
as  an  education,  but  of  not  much  help  in  determining 
what  to  hit  for  the  next  week's  cartoon.  George 
William  Curtis  had  too  broad  and  catholic  a  mind 
ever  to  have  been  a  politician.    In  fact,  his  one  or 

two  excursions  into  the  field  of  politics  were  disas- 

39 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

trous;    but  in  the  discussion  of  political  situations 
he  was  a  master. 

In  a  cartoon,  however,  you  cannot  discuss  any- 
thing; you  are  bound  by  the  natural  laws  of  pictorial 
art  to  see  your  subject  from  one  side  only.  You 
must  make  up  your  mind  exactly  where  you  stand 
and  strike  out  from  that  viewpoint.  You  can  no 
more  give  all  sides  of  a  question  in  a  cartoon  than 
you  can  draw  all  four  sides  of  a  house  in  a  picture. 

I  remember  making  this  plea,  about  as  it  is  writ- 
ten here,  to  Mr.  Curtis  one  day;  but  I  hardly  think 
it  convinced  him.  He  thought,  probably,  the  natural 
tendency  of  artists  in  general  to  take  exaggerated 
views  of  everything  was  the  real  cause  of  the  one- 
sidedness  of  cartoons. 

My  work  at  Franklin  Square  was,  as  I  have  said, 
many-sided.  A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes  is  often 
spoken  of  as  W.  D.  Howells's  best  book.  It  first 
appeared  as  a  serial  in  Harper  s  Weekly,  and  I  made 
the  illustrations  for  it  from  week  to  week,  as  it  came 
out.  I  never  saw  more  than  three  installments 
ahead,  and  that  only  at  the  beginning.  Later  on  I 
had  often  to  read  hastily  the  galley  proofs  on  Thurs- 
day afternoon  and  turn  in  my  drawing  Friday 
morning. 

Mr.  Howells*s  work  is  not  easy  to  illustrate,  be- 
cause he  is  usually  more  interested  in  what  people 
think  and  what  they  say  than  in  what  people  do 
and  how  they  do  it.  But  I  was  compensated  for  all 
my  troubles  through  making  the  acquaintance  of 
Mr.  Howells,  thus  forming  a  friendship  which  lasted 
for  many  years. 

40 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

There  was  one  character  in  the  book  over  whom 
we  differed;  that  was  "Fulkerson,"  the  syndicate 
man.  Many  people  imagine  that  S.  S.  McClure  was 
the  model  from  whom  Fulkerson  was  drawn,  but  it 
was  not  so.  Mr.  Ho  wells  had  known  a  "Fulkerson" 
(by  some  other  name,  of  course)  in  real  life  many 
years  before,  when  it  was  the  fashion  for  a  man  of 
the  world  to  wear  long  side  whiskers,  and  it  was 
with  these  adornments  that  poor  Fulkerson  was  de- 
scribed in  the  manuscript.  Side  whiskers  had  gone 
out  beyond  recall  at  the  period  which  A  Hazard 
of  New  Fortunes  was  supposed  to  reflect,  and  I 
pleaded  with  Mr.  Howells  to  borrow  the  editorial 
scissors  of  Harper^s  Weekly  and  cut  those  whiskers  off. 

But  on  this  point  he  would  not  give  way. 
Fulkerson  in  real  life  had  long  side  whiskers. 
Mr.  Howells  was  a  realist,  and  Fulkerson's 
whiskers  must  be  introduced  to  the  public  in  all 
their  flowing  glory.  I  hated  to  do  it,  but  in 
the  first  picture  of  the  syndicate  man  I  made  the 
whiskers  appear  flowing  gently  over  his  collar  and 
giving  him  the  appearance  of  a  floorwalker  in  a 
second-rate  dry-goods  store.  In  the  next  install- 
ment his  whiskers  were  trimmed  a  trifle  shorter; 
and  so,  from  week  to  week,  I  performed  the  office  of 
barber,  free  of  charge,  to  Mr.  Fulkerson,  until  at 
the  end  he  had  just  a  small  decoration  in  front  of 
each  ear. 

One  day  I  sat  with  Mr.  Howells  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  talking  of  many  things — among  others,  of 
this  story,  A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes.  The  book 
was  suggested,  I  know,  by  Mr.  Howells's  experi- 

41 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

ences  when  he  made  a  permanent  change  in  his 
place  of  residence.  The  struggles  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
March,  in  the  book,  to  establish  a  home  in  New 
York  were  his  own  struggles;  and  speaking  of  them 
led  on  to  a  reminiscence  of  his  further  experiences. 
At  the  time  of  our  conversation  Mr.  Howells  was 
seventy-nine  years  old,  and  was  still,  as  everyone 
knows,  writing  with  all  the  vigor  and  grace  of  his 
earlier  periods. 

"Some  years  ago,"  he  began  (of  course,  I  give 
only  the  substance  of  what  he  said),  "I  was  advised 
by  a  wise  banker  friend,  who  had  my  best  interests 
at  heart,  to  invest  my  savings  in  two  houses  in  an 
excellent  neighborhood  on  the  West  Side.  I  was 
sure  then,  and  am  still,  that  his  advice  was  the  best 
obtainable  at  that  time.  He  told  me  that  the  income 
from  the  two  houses  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  have 
when  I  could  no  longer  depend  on  my  pen  to  sup- 
port me.  I  bought  the  two  houses,  and  later  bought 
one  on  my  own  initiative  on  the  East  Side. 

"I  know  nothing  which  illustrates  the  curious 
freaks  of  fortune  that  beset  a  small  investor  in  New 
York  real  estate  better  than  my  experience.  The 
house  I  bought  for  no  reason  in  particular,  except 
that  it  pleased  my  fancy,  now  just  about  pays  for 
the  expense  of  owning  the  other  two." 

Then  Mr.  Howells's  face  lit  up  with  that  wonderful 
smile  known  to  all  who  had  the  privilege  of  his 
friendship,  as  he  said:  "So  I  haven't  given  up  my 
pen.  When  I  was  forty  I  said,  'At  fifty  I  shiill  retire 
from  the  field';  at  fifty  I  put  it  off  until  I  should 
be  sixty;    at  sixty  I  felt  perhaps  I  might  continue 

42 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

my  work  to  the  age  of  seventy-five;  and  now  I  look 
to  eighty  as  perhaps  a  favorable  time  to  cease  writing 
— eighty,  a  fine  round  number,  as  one  looks  at  it." 

But  the  old  weaver  of  beautiful  patterns  never 
laid  down  the  shuttle  until  three  more  years  were 
added  to  the  round  number  he  had  chosen  for  the 
finish  of  his  task. 

The  matter  of  visualizing  characters  in  a  novel 
is  a  very  interesting  one,  and  here  is  a  story  illus- 
trating it,  which  brings  in  one  of  the  most  extraor- 
dinary personalities  of  his  day,  Mark  Twain. 

Mark  Twain!  It  is  difficult  to  think  of  him  as 
Samuel  Clemens;  his  pen  name  fitted  him  so  much 
better. 

Frank  Mayo  had  dramatized  "Pudd'nhead  Wil- 
son" while  Mark  Twain  was  abroad,  and  when 
Mark  returned  he  went  to  see  the  play,  occupying  a 
box  to  the  right  of  the  stage.  I  was  present,  in  the 
front  row  of  the  balcony,  where  I  could  see  Mr. 
Clemens.  The  play,  with  Frank  Mayo  in  the  title 
role,  was  a  great  success.  As  scene  after  scene  re- 
vealed the  several  characters  Mark  Twain  became 
completely  absorbed  in  watching  them,  and  often 
appeared  absolutely  startled  when  one  appeared  on 
the  stage  for  the  first  time. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  third  act  some  one  called 
on  Mark  Twain  for  a  speech.  Mr.  Clemens  arose 
and  eulogized  Mr.  Mayo  as  author  and  actor,  and 
included  the  whole  company  in  the  credit  for  what 
he  described  as  one  of  the  strangest  and  most  com- 
plete illuminations  of  a  text  that  he  had  ever  wit- 
nessed. 

43 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Then  Frank  Mayo  was  called  on  for  a  speech.  He 
came  forward  from  the  flies  at  the  left,  looked  over 
at  Mr.  Clemens,  clasped  both  his  hands  together, 
and  in  pantomime  shook  hands  with  him.  Then, 
pausing  long  enough  to  get  the  attention  of  the 
house,  he  looked  quizzically  at  his  audience  and 
said,  "Pudd'nhead  Wilson  is  too  wise  to  speak 
after  Mark  Twain!" 

The  next  day  I  met  Mr.  Clemens  in  the  editorial 
rooms  at  Harpers'.  He  was  full  of  the  play.  "Do 
you  know,"  he  said,  "I  had  never  visualized  some 
of  the  characters  in  that  story  at  all,  and  when  they 
came  out  on  the  stage  I  did  not  recognize  them  at 
first;  but  there  they  were  in  the  flesh  and  blood,  and 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  they  must  have 
looked  like  that  and  acted  just  so.  It  was  one  of 
the  strangest  experiences  of  my  life  to  see  my  own 
creations  acting  independently  of  me." 

I  asked  Mr.  Clemens  what  he  thought  of  the 
sheriff.  This  part  was  played  by  a  fat  man  who  wore 
a  pair  of  trousers  that  were  a  work  of  comic  art. 
"He  should  be  taken  right  out  of  this  play  and 
another  one  written  around  him,"  was  the  reply. 
"And  the  twins,"  he  went  on,  "I  hardly  remembered 
the  twins,  but  there  they  were,  playing  quite  a  part 
on  the  stage." 

It  was  always  a  delight  to  hear  Mark  Twain  think 
aloud.  Those  who  have  seen  him  only  in  public 
have  missed  the  best  of  him.  If  you  were  fortunate 
enough  to  sit  down  quietly  with  him  for  an  hour 
you  never  could  forget  the  new  views  of  familiar 
things    with    which    he    would    enrich   your   mind. 

44 


A     WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Nothing  remained  commonplace  that  was  touched 
with  the  fire  and  light  of  his  genius. 

Mark  Twain  had  a  hundred  sides,  and  I  rather 
imagine  it  annoyed  him  sometimes  when  people, 
who  knew  him  only  as  the  author  of  Innocents 
Abroad,  expected  him  to  make  them  laugh. 

Two  ladies  who  moved  in  that  society  which  is 
spelled  with  a  large  "S"  had  set  their  hearts  on  hav- 
ing a  really  amusing  luncheon.  They  persuaded  a 
gentleman  who  had  some  contact  with  their  set,  and 
also  with  the  literary  world,  to  arrange  a  luncheon 
party  at  the  old  downtown  Delmonico's.  Mark 
Twain  was  to  be  there — of  course,  he  would  be 
screamingly  funny.  In  the  innocence  of  their  hearts 
the  two  ladies  imagined  that  I,  being  a  cartoonist, 
would  cover  the  tablecloth  with  comic  pictures. 
Hence  I  was  invited. 

Never  did  I  see  a  more  solemn  countenance  than 
Mark  Twain  presented  on  that  occasion.  In  vain 
our  host  laid  snares  for  an  opening  joke.  Mark 
began  a  dissertation  on  the  nothingness  of  man — 
the  cosmos,  interstellar  space,  atomic  theory — any- 
thing in  the  heavens  above  or  in  the  waters  under 
the  earth,  but  nothing  to  do  with  anything  on  this 
green  sphere.  The  two  ladies  listened  with  strained 
attention,  waiting  for  the  colossal  joke  which  surely 
must  be  in  course  of  preparation;  but  Mark  Twain 
went  on  serenely  through  bouillon,  fish,  flesh,  and 
fowl,  with  never  a  break  in  the  monotonous  flow  of 
learned  discourse.  At  last,  worn  out  with  hope 
deferred,  the  ladies  turned  to  me — surely  a  car- 
toonist could  say  or  do  or  draw  something  funny. 

45 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

But  alas  for  their  faith!  Was  I  going  to  allow 
myself  to  be  funnier  than  Mark  Twain?  And  in  his 
presence  at  that?  Little  did  they  know  of  profes- 
sional etiquette.  And,  besides,  I  was  so  convulsed 
with  inward  laughter  at  the  wonderful  discourse 
which  Mark  Twain  was  delivering  and  with  his 
earnest  manner,  that  I  could  scarcely  keep  a 
decent  countenance. 

One  of  the  ladies  recovered  sufficiently  at  parting, 
after  the  luncheon,  to  say  to  Mr.  Clemens  that  she 
never  had  supposed  he  could  be  so  funny.  And  he 
suavely  replied  that  he  could  not  very  often. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  writing  these  rambling  recollections  of  people 
and  events  that  have  played  a  part  in  my  life  I 
have  begun  in  the  middle.  Let  me  now  go  back 
as  far  as  I  can*  remember,  for  there  were  interesting 
things  going  on  when  I  was  a  small  child,  and  pretty 
much  everything  we  learn  as  we  grow  up  comes  to 
us  in  the  form  of  a  comparison  with  the  few  primal 
things  we  knew  as  children. 

The  earliest  thing  I  can  recall  is  a  playground 
about  the  gnarled  roots  of  a  giant  oak.  Its  great 
mysterious  shaft  shot  up  through  the  leaves  into  the 
sky  and  disappeared.  To  that  first  impression  of  a 
great  tree  may  be  due  a  curious  twist  of  my  imagi- 
nation. To  me  personalities  always  resolve  them- 
selves into  terms  of  trees.  The  noblest  character 
is  always  an  oak,  the  strongest  a  hickory,  the  most 
elegant  an  elm,  the  affable  a  maple,  and  the  weird 
or  ghostly  a  sycamore. 

From  under  the  giant  oak  I  saw  the  first  mobili- 
zation of  troops  before  the  Civil  War,  and  from  the 
top  of  a  hill  near  by  I  saw  the  houses  of  our  little 
town  illuminated  in  honor  of  the  laying  of  the  first 
Atlantic  cable. 

About  this  time,  or  perhaps  a  year  later,  I  came 
in  contact  with  the  first  man  of  national  reputation 
whom  I  ever  met.    I  can  give  the  picture  only  as  I 

47 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

saw  it  then.  He  was  a  sturdy  gentleman  and  was 
seated  in  my  mother's  parlor.  His  tall  silk  hat  rested 
on  a  table  beside  him.  I  was  keenly  aware  of  that 
silk  hat,  also  of  his  gold  watch  chain  and  his  black- 
velvet  waistcoat  ornamented  with  small  pink  roses 
with  green  leaves. 

I  was  invited  to  sit  on  his  knee,  an  invitation 
cpickly  accepted,  as  it  gave  me  the  opportunity  to 
examine  and  touch  with  my  fingers  the  pink  roses 
and  the  gold  watch  chain.  I  am  sorry  I  can  give  a 
no  more  accurate  description  of  this  gentleman, 
because  he  was  then  on  the  threshold  of  a  great 
career.  He  and  my  father,  previous  to  the  latter's 
death  in  1855,  had  practiced  law  in  the  circuit  courts 
in  Ohio  together.    His  name  was  Salmon  P.  Chase. 

In  1861  came  the  Civil  War  and  hard  times.  The 
big  house  we  lived  in  had  to  go  and  we  moved  into 
a  little  cottage.  It  was  there  I  heard  from  day  to 
day  the  story  of  the  war.  For  economy's  sake  our 
next-door  neighbor  and  my  mother  together  sub- 
scribed for  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  and  at  about 
eleven  o'clock  each  morning  the  daughter  of  our 
neighbor  used  to  come  to  a  stile  which  stood  in  the 
hedge  that  separated  our  dooryards  and  read  to  us 
the  war  news.  I  can  see  Miss  Mary  as  she  stood 
upon  those  wooden  steps  and  read  the  daily  record 
of  our  army's  success  or  failure  or  of  hope  deferred. 

A  young,  handsome  lad  from  Xenia,  our  nearest 
town,  represented  the  Gazette  at  the  front  as  a  war 
correspondent.  He  wrote  under  the  pen  name  of 
"Agate."    His  name  was  Whitelaw  Reid. 

It  was  at  the  old  stile  I  learned  the  history  of  the 

48 


GRAY  PARKER 

From  a  Sketch  Made  in  the  '70s 


^■''^^^^■ 


THE  "DAILY  GRAPHIC"  ROOM  AT  MOUQUIN'S 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Civil  War.  Confused  it  was — fragmentary,  of  course 
— but  it  got  under  the  skin  and  it  was  burned  in  as 
no  school-taught  history  ever  was.  I  have  seen  the 
little  circle  gathered  about  those  steps  in  the  hot 
summer  sun,  when  every  nerve  grew  so  tense  that 
the  only  sound  above  a  heartbeat  was  the  voice  of 
Miss  Mary  struggling  to  steady  itself  through  words 
that  carried  the  news  of  life  and  death. 

The  three  supreme  days  that  will  ever  dwell  in 
my  mind  were  the  three  crucial  days  of  Gettysburg. 
The  news  was  meager,  it  was  contradictory.  On  the 
third  day  of  the  battle  I  made  my  way  to  the  rail- 
road station  to  fetch  our  paper.  We  received  very 
little  telegraphic  news  in  those  days  outside  of  the 
papers;  in  fact,  I  think,  none  at  all.  A  group  of 
silent  men  and  women  waited  at  the  station.  As  I 
look  back  on  that  day  I  can  see  the  empty  streets, 
deserted  except  for  silent  groups  standing  on  the 
corners.  It  was  the  awful  silence  that  sent  a  chill  of 
fear  through  my  heart.  I  remember  that  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer.  I  went  up  to  an  old  man  and 
asked  him  if  there  was  any  news.  He  looked  at  me 
and  laid  his  hand  on  my  head,  but  made  no  answer. 

I  was  still  a  very  small  boy  when  the  news  was 
flashed  over  the  country  of  Lincoln's  tragic  end. 
Life  from  my  earliest  recollection  had  been  one  long 
series  of  dramatic  happenings  which  now  culminated 
in  the  death  of  their  greatest  figure. 

It  is  very  often  said  in  these  days  that  it  was  not 
until  many  years  after  the  Civil  War  that  the 
greatness  of  Abraham  Lincoln  was  appreciated,  and 
that  the  veneration  in  which  his  name  is  now  held 

49 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

is  of  recent  growth;  but  that  is  not  according  to 
my  recollection.  In  my  own  home  town  in  Ohio, 
at  least,  his  death  fell  as  a  bereavement  personal  to 
every  man,  woman,  and  child. 

I  say  everyone,  but  in  that  little  town  there  was 
an  exception.  The  morning  of  Lincoln's  death  a 
number  of  us — just  careless  youngsters — were  play- 
ing hide-and-seek  in  a  lumberyard.  The  lumber 
stood  in  great  piles  in  what  remained  of  a  walnut 
grove,  each  layer  of  boards  separated  from  the  next 
by  two-inch  sawed  sticks.  As  we  clambered  about 
over  the  lumber  piles  we  would  cease  every  now 
and  then  from  our  play  and  some  one  would  say 
in  an  awed  whisper,  "The  President  is  dead!" 
There  seemed  something  very  dreadful  to  us  in  that 
thought,  and  we  would  all  sit  very  still  for  a  moment 
or  two. 

One  of  the  boys  had  just  said  this  for  the  second 
or  third  time  when  the  voice  of  a  big,  husky  German 
workman  (I  am  glad,  at  least,  he  was  a  German) 
shouted  back:  "And  a  goot  chob,  too!  Serfed  him 
right!"  With  one  accord  we  armed  ourselves  with 
the  two-inch  sticks,  which  lay  handy  to  our  reach, 
and  attacked  that  big  fellow  from  all  sides. 

We  gave  him  a  most  unmerciful  beating,  and  he 
escaped  serious  injury  only  by  flight,  bellowing 
threats  as  he  ran.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  several  of  us 
got  thrashings  from  him  later;  but  never  mind,  he 
got  his  first! 

I  was  attending  a  little  private  school  at  that 
time,  which,  by  the  way,  was  kept  by  a  young  Ger- 
man woman  who  was  a  most  excellent  teacher,  but 

50 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

a  strong  sympathizer  with  the  South,  where  her  peo- 
ple hved.  She  was  what  we  called  a  "Copperhead" 
in  Civil  War  times.  But  Miss  Knaus  had  never 
expressed  her  sentiments  at  all  freely,  and  up  to  the 
time  of  the  assassination  of  Lincoln  had  never 
clashed  with  the  popular  feeling.  On  the  day  before 
the  memorial  services,  which  were  to  be  held  simul- 
taneously in  all  the  towns  in  the  United  States,  Miss 
Knaus  made  an  announcement.  She  called  up  all 
the  classes  (there  were  about  fifty  children  in  the 
school)  and  informed  us  that  school  would  be  held 
as  usual  the  next  morning,  and  that  any  scholar 
who  absented  himself  or  herself  to  attend  the  me- 
morial services  would  be  expelled  from  the  school. 

We  were  only  little  bits  of  children,  but  I  can  re- 
member the  deep  fire  of  indignation  which  ran 
through  our  hearts  at  her  words.  After  school  we 
all  met  out  on  the  sidewalk  and  decided  what  we 
would  do.  It  seems  a  very  strange  thing,  as  I  look 
back  on  that  time,  to  realize  what  we  little  folks 
determined  on,  there  and  then,  without  consulting 
any  grown  person.  We  decided  to  come  to  school  at 
nine  o'clock,  as  usual,  the  next  morning,  and  when 
the  church  bell  started  to  ring  for  the  service  at 
half  past  ten  we  were  to  rise  from  our  seats,  form  in 
line,  and  march  out  of  the  schoolhouse  and  up  to 
the  church. 

The  next  morning  we  were,  every  one,  at  school 
promptly  at  nine  o'clock.  Each  one  of  us  wore  a 
tiny  tintype  portrait  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  framed  in 
gilt  foil,  on  a  crepe  bow  fastened  on  the  left  breast 
of  his  little  jacket.    These  decorations  won  us  black 

51 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

looks  from  our  schoolmistress.  However,  we  had 
come  to  school,  and  she  felt  she  had  won  a  victory. 
But,  the  spelling  lesson  over  and  an  indifferent  recita- 
tion in  mental  arithmetic  completed,  the  solemn 
clang  of  the  church  bell  rang  out.  It  was  like  a  call 
to  arms.  Up  from  our  seats  we  sprang,  and  in  an 
instant  that  little  schoolroom  was  as  full  of  elec- 
tricity as  a  dynamo  room.  Miss  Knaus  turned  a 
deathly  white  and  commanded  us  all  to  be  seated. 
But  we  formed  quietly  in  lines  in  the  aisles  and 
marched  to  the  door.  Our  teacher  made  a  dash 
to  close  it,  but  was  too  late.  We  larger  boys — 
the  oldest  was  about  eleven  years  of  age — put 
our  backs  against  it  until  all  the  tiniest  tots  were 
safely  out. 

The  next  day  Miss  Knaus  was  informed  by  our 
parents  that  she  could  take  us  all  back  or  close  her 
school,  just  as  she  pleased.  She  surrendered  at  dis- 
cretion, but  her  school  dwindled  away  to  nothing 
from  that  day  forth. 

When  I  was  a  very  little  boy  every  youngster 
was  brought  up  on  Mayne  Reid  and  Captain  Mar- 
ry at.  The  generation  before — poor  souls! — were 
raised  on  the  "Rollo"  books,  and  the  generation 
before  that  read  "Sanford  and  Merton"  for  their 
sins.  I  learned  to  read  rather  early,  and  when  not 
more  than  six  or  seven  years  old  had  spelled  my  way 
through  several  little  books  and  had  my  eye  fixed  on  a 
tale  of  South  Africa,  by  Mayne  Reid.  In  this  book 
was  a  picture  of  a  lion  coming  up  out  of  the  chimney 
of  a  hut,  smoke  and  flame  pouring  out  around  him. 
Before  I  had  an  opportunity  to  start  reading  this 

52 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

story  the  book  mysteriously  disappeared.  My  father 
had  left  us  more  books  than  money,  a  fine  miseella- 
neous  Hbrary,  in  fact,  and  I  proceeded  methodically 
to  hunt  for  that  lion  through  rows  of  books  piled 
up  on  shelves  to  the  ceiling.  A  small  boy  in  quest 
of  a  picture-book  lion  has  the  patience  of  Job; 
day  after  day  and  month  after  month  this  particular 
one  went  through  every  book  that  had  the  least 
promise  of  a  lion  in  it. 

Once  he  thought  he  had  tracked  the  lion  to  his 
lair — Yaradee:  A  Plea  for  Africa,  with  his  grand- 
father's initials  on  the  flyleaf,  looked  promising.  But 
his  grandfather  was  one  of  the  original  abolitionists 
of  the  Garrison  school,  and  Yaradee  was  a  part  of  his 
propaganda. 

But,  though  the  small  boy  hunted  that  elusive 
lion  for  several  years  and  never  found  him,  the 
quest  was  well  worth  the  effort  it  cost.  Seated  on 
top  of  a  stepladder,  alongside  of  the  bookshelves, 
he  dipped,  and  sometimes  deeply,  into  books  that 
very  few  eight-  or  ten-year-old  youngsters  ever  look 
into  at  all.  He  read  all  of  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene 
from  cover  to  cover.  He  read  "The  Tempest," 
hoping  to  see  his  lion  spring  out  from  behind  the 
rock  and  eat  old  Caliban;  he  followed  Orlando 
through  the  Forest  of  Arden.  The  trail  grew  very 
warm  when  Orlando's  brother  told  Rosalind  how 
Orlando  had  saved  him  from  the  lioness. 

Of  course,  in  pursuing  these  side  excursions  from 
the  main  trail  of  his  story-book  lion  the  small  boy 
frequently  got  lost.  Much  of  the  great  literature  he 
dipped  into  was  to  him  but  a  labyrinth  of  words; 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  never  was  told  what  to 
think  of  a  passage,  what  to  admire,  or  what  was 
neghgible. 

He  read  "The  Tempest"  only  because  he  wished 
to;  and  if  the  Faerie  Queene  hadn't  interested  him 
and  its  peculiar  rhythm  hadn't  fascinated  him,  he 
never  would  have  made  his  way  through  those  long 
volumes. 

Ever  on  the  spoor  of  his  lion,  he  waded  through 
many  a  deep  literary  jungle  and  enjoyed  books  that 
are  made  a  task  and  an  abomination  to  many  young 
minds  through  being  put  before  them  in  the  form  of 
something  to  be  learned.  One  day  he  discovered  a 
treasure — it  was  in  parts — issued  as  a  subscription 
book.  The  letters  were  very  queer  and  black  and 
close  together.  They  puzzled  the  small  boy  not  a 
little,  but  by  dint  of  comparing  them  over  and  over 
again  with  common  print  he  learned  at  last  to 
decipher  them. 

Some  of  the  words  were  as  queer  as  the  letters, 
but  this  book  soon  held  more  of  a  fascination  than 
any  other  in  the  library.  The  hunter  could  some- 
times read  a  whole  sentence,  with  only  two  or  three 
strange  words,  and  get  the  sense  of  these  by  the 
context. 

The  part  of  the  book  he  learned  to  read  was 
called  "The  Nonne's  Preeste's  Tale."  It  was  like  a 
puzzle  picture;  often  there  were  gaps  in  it  as  he 
put  it  together;  and  then  a  sudden  light  would  fall 
on  its  meaning,  and,  while  he  never  got  the  puzzle 
completed,  he  found  in  it  a  beautiful  rhythm  which 
stirred  his  imagination.    The  story  of  "Canticleere" 

54 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

was  one  no  small  boy  could  resist  when  once  its 
black-letter  shell  was  penetrated. 

But  imagine  setting  a  child  of  eight  years  the  task 
of  learning  to  read  Chaucer  in  the  "black  letter"! 
It  could  hardly  be  done,  and  even  though  accom- 
plished, the  child  would  hate  his  teacher  and  Chau- 
cer in  about  equal  proportions. 

When  I  think  of  my  vain  struggles  at  school  with 
another  book  called  Stoddard's  Mental  Arithmetic, 
I  am  convinced  that  it  is  much  easier  to  learn  things 
when  you  do  not  have  to. 

Here  in  facsimile  are  a  couple  of  verses  from  *'The 
Nonne's  Preeste's  Tale."  It  is  easily  to  be  seen  how 
pleasing  to  a  child  it  would  be  to  discover  this  won- 
derful description  of  "  Canticleere,"  the  cock  hidden 
away  in  black  letter. 

Perhaps  I  have  already  intimated  that  I  made 
an  early  entrance  into  the  world  of  business.  Some 
sympathetic  soul  may  think  it  was  a  great  hardship 
for  a  boy  to  go  to  work  at  the  age  of  thirteen;  but 
before  any  tears  are  shed  over  it  allow  me  to  tell  just 
what  a  glorious  job  it  was.  I  was  made  check  clerk 
in  the  freight  house  of  the  C,  S.  &  C.  Railway  of  Ohio, 
and  keeper  of  the  "way-bill  book."  It  was  my  duty 
to  go  over  the  freight  yard  and  make  a  record  of  all 
the  empty  freight  cars  by  number  and  telegraph  this 
every  night  to  the  headquarters  in  Sandusky. 

Imagine  a  boy  of  thirteen  sitting  in  the  cab  of  a 
switch  engine,  ringing  the  engine  bell,  at  about  the 
hour  when  his  best  pals  were  just  coming  home  from 
school  every  afternoon  loaded  down  with  Stoddard's 
Mental  Arithmetic  and  Green's  Analysis  of  Gram- 

55 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

mar  and  geographies  and  slates!  That  was  part  of 
my  job  as  I  numbered  the  empty  cars — and  I  was 
being  paid  for  it,  when  every  boy  in  town  would 
have  put  up  all  his  taffy  and  ju-ju  paste  for  the 
privilege  of  being  in  my  place. 

And  then  I  knew  the  engineer  of  the  switch  engine 
and  could  call  him  Hank,  and  the  fireman,  Mike 
Burke,  was  my  dear  friend.  Mike  had  bushy  red 
hair  and  a  little  mustache  which  he  curled  up  at 
the  ends,  and  when  Hank  was  off  duty  at  noon  Mike 
used  to  run  the  switch  engine  down  to  the  high- 
school  crossing,  where  the  schoolgirls  passed  at  about 
that  time  on  their  way  to  lunch. 

Mike  would  blow  off  steam,  give  a  toot  or  two  on 
the  whistle,  hang  out  of  the  cab  window,  and  curl 
his  mustache.  But  a  locomotive  was  not  such  a 
loadstone  to  the  schoolgirl  as  it  was  to  the  school- 
boy, and  Mike,  it  seemed  to  me,  wasted  a  good  deal 
of  energy  at  this  crossing. 

Mike  had  worked  as  a  "scroll  artist"  before  he 
became  a  fireman.  He  used  to  paint  scrolls  and  little 
landscapes  on  threshing  machines — and  he  was  clever 
at  it.  He  and  I  used  to  climb  up  from  the  top  of  a 
box  car  into  a  loft  over  the  freight  office,  and  up 
there  we  practiced  drawing  scrolls  with  red  chalk  on 
the  plaster  walls. 

There  were  several  of  those  "scroll  artists"  in  the 
town.  One  of  them  was  an  old  German  who  wore  a 
rusty  cloak  with  a  red  lining,  let  his  hair  grow  long 
over  his  shoulders,  and  seemed  to  imagine  he  was  a 
real  artist.  Maybe  he  was  in  his  heart,  poor  old  chap! 
Then  there  was  another,  who  had  a  shock  of  black 

50 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

curly  hair  which  he  oiled  prodigiously.  lie  wore  a 
pair  of  fierce  mustachios  and  a  goatee,  and  was 
suspected  of  using  ivory  black  on  them  to  hide  the 
frosts  of  time.  On  Saturday  afternoons  he  used  to 
appear  on  the  streets  in  an  immaculate  suit  of  white 
duck  and  a  big  gray  sombrero  which  he  wore  with  a 
tremendous  swagger.  He,  too,  appeared  to  imagine 
that  he  was  a  real  artist,  yet  I  fear  he  was  mistaken. 

If  this  were  an  autobiography  I  should  not  be  able 
to  skip  so  easily  from  one  period  to  another,  but  in 
writing  about  "worth-while"  people  I  have  known  it 
is  permissible  to  turn  back  the  hands  of  the  clock 
and  begin  over  again  when  the  occasion  calls  for  it. 
As  I  have  said  in  a  former  chapter,  the  Hancock 
campaign  was  the  beginning  of  my  work  as  a  car- 
toonist in  Harper's  Weekly.  But  more  than  ten  years 
before,  when  I  was  a  boy  of  fourteen,  I  made  a 
short  series  of  cartoons  in  Dayton,  Ohio,  which  I 
believe  were  the  first  cartoons  ever  syndicated  in 
this  country.  They  were  two  columns  in  size,  drawn 
on  wood  with  pen-and-ink,  and  were  engraved  by 
Daniel  Auchey.  These  little  political  cartoons  were 
syndicated  in  Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Illinois  among  the 
small  country  newspapers.  I  have  an  idea  that  they 
were  pretty  crude  specimens  of  the  art  of  cartooning. 

Two  years  afterward  I  went  to  work  in  the  en- 
graving house  of  Bogart  &  Stillman  in  Cincinnati. 
The  engravers  employed  there  looked  dow^n  from  a 
lofty  height  on  the  youngsters  who  were  learning  to 
be  mere  draftsmen.  They  designated  us  as  "goats" 
— and  not  so  inappropriately,  either,  for  our  prin- 

57 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

cipal  duty  seemed  to  be  to  carry  boxwood  blocks 
all  over  Cincinnati.  "Jim"  Wales  and  I  were  the 
principal  "goats"  at  that  time.  Jim  afterward 
joined  the  staff  of  Puck  and  made  some  famous 
cartoons  for  that  paper. 

I  lived,  while  in  Cincinnati,  in  an  enormous, 
rambling  old  mansion,  very  much  dilapidated,  which 
was  attached  to  the  steep  side  of  Mount  Adams 
much  after  the  fashion  of  a  mud  wasp's  nest.  One 
side  of  the  house  was  one  story  in  height,  the  other 
side  three  stories. 

In  it  was  gathered  a  curious  company:  a  young 
coal  merchant  with  a  fancy  for  private  theatricals 
and  several  young  fellows,  clerks  and  what  not, 
ready  for  any  amusement.  There  were  also  several 
young  women  employed  in  shops,  an  old  lady  who 
had  been  on  the  stage  and  knew  all  its  traditions, 
and  a  young  woman  about  tv\^enty  years  of  age  of 
very  distinguished  appearance,  who  was  making  a 
serious  study  of  dramatic  art.  The  basement  of  this 
old  mansion  contained  one  enormous  room  w^th  a 
brick  floor  and  a  great  fireplace.  To  this  room  we 
used  to  repair  after  dinner  and,  on  an  improvised 
stage,  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  lodgers  rehearsed  little 
scenes  from  the  old  comedies  and  farces. 

The  coal  merchant  was  a  rather  clever  actor,  and 
I  remember  some  well-acted  scenes  between  him  and 
the  young  girl  with  stage  ambitions,  coached  by  the 
old  actress. 

Some  of  the  women  in  the  house,  whose  talents 
ran  more  to  gossip  than  to  acting,  used  to  question 
the  mode  of  life  of  the  young  woman,  and  took 

58 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

pains  to  draw  attention  to  the  fact  that  she  had  no 
very  visible  means  of  support.  But  there  was  about 
her  such  an  air  of  good  breeding  and  earnestness 
that  no  one  dared  openly  say  a  word  in  her  disfavor. 

To  be  sure,  she  frequently  disappeared  for  a  day; 
and  occasionally  at  night  a  telegram  would  come  for 
her  and  she  would  instantly  take  her  leave  for  the 
time  being,  going  off  alone  on  some  errand  known 
only  to  herself.  She  was  a  woman  of  mystery  and 
also  of  very  great  talent,  and  for  the  one  reason  as 
much,  perhaps,  as  for  the  other  she  appealed  strongly 
to  the  chivalry  of  a  sixteen-year-old  boy. 

One  night,  after  many  rehearsals,  we  gave  a  little 
play.  Our  audience,  which  consisted  of  the  neigh- 
bors and  the  servants,  was  pleased  with  the  per- 
formance. Our  twisted,  rheumatic  old  cook  was  so 
enthusiastic  that  she  danced  an  Irish  jig  on  the 
hearth  after  it  was  over,  and  just  then  a  messenger 
boy  came  in  with  a  telegram  for  our  leading  lady. 

She  left  for  her  room  immediately,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  I  met  her  in  the  hall,  where  she  called 
me  aside  and  asked  me  if  I  would  do  her  a  favor. 
She  had  to  go  to  the  other  end  of  the  city  and  to 
cross  through  a  very  tough  quarter  on  her  way. 
Would  I  accompany  her.^^  Would  I  travel  at  mid- 
night into  the  land  of  mystery  which  surrounded 
her.''  I  was  ready  in  a  moment.  We  caught  a  street 
car  which  made  its  crooked  way  through  various 
streets,  past  the  old  Longworth  mansion  and  up 
Fourth  Street;  then  another  car,  and  then  a  walk 
through  the  part  of  towTi  which  she  feared  to  cross 
alone.    I  think  it  was  called  the  Mill  River  district, 

59 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

and  it  was  certainly  at  that  hour  a  dark  and  dismal 
place  to  traverse. 

Up  to  this  time  my  lady  of  mystery  had  said  very 
little;  nothing,  in  fact,  of  her  destination  or  the 
object  of  our  expedition,  and  I  asked  no  questions. 
But  now  she  turned  to  me  and  said:  "I  am  afraid 
when  you  see  where  I  am  going  you  will  think  me  a 
horrible  sort  of  person.  Of  course,  you  must  have 
heard  some  of  the  gossip  that  goes  on  at  the  house. 
Nobody  there  knows  what  I  do  for  a  living,  and  that 
doesn't  prevent  unkind  surmises.  Perhaps  if  they 
really  knew,  the  comments  would  be  more  imkind  still. 

"When  we  get  into  the  better  neighborhood  before 
us,  I  go  to  a  house  where  there  is  black  crej>e  and  a 
white  ribbon  on  the  door.  A  tiny  baby  has  just 
died  there  and  my  work  is  to  dress  it,  to  surround 
it  with  iSowers,  to  make  the  last  view  its  mother 
has  of  it  a  beautiful  memory.  My  work  comes  to 
me  through  the  florists.  To  some  people  it  might 
seem  a  ghoulish  business;  certainly,  it  is  a  strange 
occupation  for  a  woman  who  aspires  to  play  comedy." 

We  were  through  the  worst  part  of  our  journey 
now,  and,  after  climbing  a  long  hill,  arrived  at  the 
house  of  mourning,  where  I  left  milady  at  the  door. 
Many  times  afterward  I  fancied  that  I  saw  a  resem- 
blance in  some  clever  actress  on  the  stage  to  this 
extraordinary  girl,  but  the  camouflage  of  make-up 
and  stage  names  concealed  her  always  if  by  chance 
it  were  she. 

A  few  months  spent  as  a  "goat"  in  the  engraving 
office  convinced  me  that  I  was  in  the  wrong  place  to 
pick  up  an  art  education  and  I  shifted  my  line  of 

60 


Q 

h 
o 

s 

Q 
I— I 


Q 


O 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

endeavor  to  the  Worcester  Technical  Institute.  A 
vacation  job  brought  me  into  New  York  just  in 
time  to  witness  the  riots  of  July  12,  1871.  After 
periods  of  peace  and  quiet  lasting  many  years,  law 
and  order  in  New  York  have  a  habit  of  being  tem- 
porarily suspended  now  and  then  by  serious  frays 
between  the  authorities  and  the  rough  element. 
There  has  usually  been  no  one  set  of  lawbreakers 
responsible  for  these  outbreaks;  but  let  an  occasion 
arise  where  any  set  of  citizens  becomes  discontented 
or  displeased  with  the  way  it  is  governed,  or  where 
prejudice  of  race  or  religion  is  stirred,  and  a  turbu- 
lent minority  seems  always  ready  and  waiting  to 
take  advantage  of  the  chance  to  try  conclusions  with 
the  city  or  state  authorities.  In  the  Macready  riots 
on  May  10,  1849,  in  Astor  Place,  the  mob  was  prob- 
ably composed,  three-quarters  at  least,  of  people 
who  had  but  a  very  hazy  notion  of  what  they  were 
fighting  about.  Nevertheless,  the  riot  became  a 
serious  one.  Before  it  was  quelled  by  the  Seventh 
Regiment  one  hundred  and  forty-one  members  of 
that  regiment  were  wounded  and  many  of  the 
rioters  were  killed.  Everyone  knows  of  the  draft 
riots  during  the  Civil  War,  on  which  occasion  the 
city  was  in  a  state  of  anarchy  for  several  days. 

On  July  1,  1871,  I  arrived  in  New  York  to  make 
working  drawings  in  a  chandelier  factory  on  Tenth 
Avenue.  I  went  to  live  with  the  superintendent  of 
the  factory  in  his  house  on  Twenty -fourth  Street, 
only  a  few  doors  west  of  Eighth  Avenue.  New  York 
was  a  great,  mysterious  place  to  me  and  I  was  des- 
tined very  soon  to  see  it  in  its  most  sinister  mood. 

61 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

On  the  morning  of  July  12th  I  went  to  my  work 
on  Tenth  Avenue  at  the  corner  of  Twenty-fourth 
Street.  We  had  all  heard  that  a  parade  of  Orange- 
men was  to  start  down  Eighth  Avenue  during  the 
morning,  and  it  was  rumored  there  would  be  trouble 
when  they  arrived  at  the  lower  end  of  the  avenue. 
No  one,  however,  had  the  least  idea  that  there  would 
be  any  serious  attack  on  the  procession  in  our  "up- 
town" neighborhood,  as  we  called  Twenty-fourth 
Street  in  those  days. 

But  suddenly  we  heard  numerous  stray  shots 
fired,  and  then  a  volley.  The  superintendent  rushed 
into  the  department  where  I  was  at  work  and  shouted 
that  the  firing  was  at  the  Twenty-fourth  Street 
corner,  only  a  few  rods  from  his  home. 

He  and  I  immediately  proceeded  up  Twenty- 
fourth  Street.  At  Ninth  Avenue  we  were  held  up 
a  moment  by  a  policeman,  but,  in  the  rush  of  people 
fleeing  from  Eighth  Avenue,  we  slipped  by  and 
pushed  and  jostled  our  way  through  the  crowd 
until  we  arrived  at  the  house. 

There  we  found  the  doors  barricaded.  Apparently 
no  harm  had  come  to  the  superintendent's  family, 
who  were  in  the  house. 

Shots  were  being  fired  from  the  housetops  down 
into  Eighth  Avenue,  but  the  militia — Jim  Fisk's 
regiment — were  standing  quietly  in  the  middle  of 
the  avenue.  My  companion,  who  was  a  cool- 
headed  person,  led  the  way  to  the  corner,  advising 
me,  as  we  went  along,  to  say  nothing  to  anyone,  to 
ask  or  answer  no  questions — mighty  good  advice, 
too,  it  was. 

62 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

When  we  arrived  on  the  avenue,  in  fact  before 
we  turned  out  of  Twenty-fourth  Street,  we  saw  dead 
and  wounded  men  being  dragged  away  by  friends, 
often  with  deep  curses  muttered  at  the  soldiers.  I 
remember  that  at  the  corner  where  the  crowd  was 
thickest  I  stumbled  over  the  body  of  a  pK)or  fellow 
who  had  been  shot  at  such  close  range  that  he  was 
almost  blown  to  pieces. 

We  walked  up  to  Twenty-eighth  Street  without 
being  molested,  although  every  now  and  then  could 
be  heard  the  bark  of  a  pistol  from  the  top  of  a  house 
on  the  east  side  of  the  avenue.  I  had  no  means  of 
knowing  how  many  volleys  had  been  fired  by  the 
soldiers,  but  evidently  one  at  least  had  been  fired 
over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  for  the  red-brick  houses 
along  the  avenue  were  clipped,  where  the  bullets 
had  struck,  up  to  the  top  floors. 

So  far  as  I  know,  no  accurate  casualty  list  of  that 
riot  has  ever  been  published.  In  fact,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve the  figures  are  known.  The  friends  of  the 
dead  and  wounded  undoubtedly  tried  to  conceal 
their  losses  under  the  guise  of  sickness  and  natural 
death.  It  was  believed  at  the  time  that  one  hundred 
people  lost  their  lives,  but  this  was  probably  an 
exaggerated  estimate. 

It  was  a  terrible  introduction  which  I  had  to  New 
York,  but  sad  and  gruesome  as  were  the  happenings 
on  July  12,  1871,  they  ended  from  that  day  to  this 
the  idea  of  mob  rule  in  New  York.  A  curious  after- 
effect of  my  experience  that  morning  on  Eighth 
Avenue  was  the  reaction  in  the  evening.  All  day 
while  the  excitement  lasted  I  felt,  boylike,  a  very 

63 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

brave  person;  but  when  night  fell  and  the  streets 
were  deserted  and  all  was  unwontedly  still,  I  became 
suddenly  panic-stricken,  hauled  my  bureau  about, 
and  barricaded  my  door  with  it,  closed  the  window 
tight,  although  it  was  a  hot,  stifling  night,  pulled 
the  covers  over  my  head,  and  lay  awake  until  long 
past  midnight,  frightened  at  I  knew  not  what. 

New  York  when  I  first  saw  it  seemed  an  enormous 
city,  with  more  people  within  its  borders  than  it 
could  well  take  care  of;  and  yet,  compared  with  the 
city  of  to-day  it  was  but  a  village,  or  at  most  an 
association  of  several  villages  considerably  scattered. 
There  has  always  been  to  me  something  very  real 
and  very  terrible  in  the  personality  of  the  city  itself, 
apart  from  the  individuals  who  compose  its  citizen- 
ship. I  have  seen  it  as  a  great  serpent  lazily  basking 
in  the  sun  by  the  sea,  apparently  motionless,  un- 
changeable, yet  silently  growing,  until  with  a  great 
throe  it  sheds  its  ancient  skin  and  rises  up  finer,  with 
the  light  playing  on  new  and  shining  surfaces. 

The  old  serpent  has  shed  its  skin  many  times  since 
I  made  its  acquaintance.  Think  of  rocky  cliffs  cov- 
ered with  squalid  and  ramshackle  shanties  extending 
from  Thirty-fourth  Street  northward  to  the  Park 
and  from  that  oasis  westward  as  far,  in  many  places, 
as  the  North  River. 

Harlem  seemed  as  far  away  then  as  Poughkeepsie 
does  now;  stages  were  the  only  means  of  transit  up 
and  down  town,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three 
horse-car  lines;  an  elevated  line  had  been  started 
and  was  a  failure! 

That  was  the  dreadful  brownstone  age  of  house 

64! 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

architecture  and  the  cast-iron  age  of  business  con- 
struction; the  period  of  the  jerky  cable  Hne  down 
Broadway  and  of  the  two-dollar  derby  hat. 

Sixth  Avenue  was  then  the  dry -goods  and  general- 
store  district — where  prices  and  business  began  at 
last  to  languish.  The  exodus  to  Fifth  Avenue,  where 
prices  caught  their  second  wind,  was  still  in  the 
unsuspected  future. 

It  took  a  long  time  to  cover  with  a  new  skin  that 
part  of  the  old  serpent's  body  which  lay  between 
Fourteenth  and  Twenty-third  streets.  But  that  was 
only  a  small  patch,  which  counted  for  little.  Mean- 
while the  silent,  inevitable  expansion  ceaselessly 
went  on.  Whole  streets  of  glittering  playhouses 
came  into  being — the  moving  picture,  the  dazzling 
electric  sign,  the  diabolical  taxi,  the  jammed  and 
crowded  subway,  tunnels,  bridges,  and  bandits. 
The  glorious  old  ophidian  before  long  outgrew  the 
island  of  Manhattan  and  with  one  great  convolution 
cast  his  coils  over  Kings  and  Queens  and  Richmond 
and  the  Bronx.  Now  he  rears  his  golden  head  above 
all  the  world  in  the  peerless  Wool  worth  Tower! 

I  cannot  say  that  life  between  the  North  and  East 
rivers  is  as  comfortable  as  it  was  some  years  ago. 
There  is  not  much  room  left  for  us  poor  mortals! 
We  are  squeezed  into  the  comers  or  off  the  island 
entirely.  The  great  city  is  admirable  to  look  upon; 
yet  in  our  own  little  homely  way  we  miss  the  old 
Grapevine  Inn,  the  seventy-five-cent  table  d'hote ^ 
room  to  get  about  on  streets  unscented  by  the 
muflQer's  fumes,  the  hansom  cab,  and  the  two-dollar 
derby. 

65 


CHAPTER   V 

IN   1907  I  wrote  the  following  account  for  an 
anniversary   number   of   Harper's  Weekly.      It 
commences  the  story  of  how  I  played  hooky 
while  a  "cub  artist"  on  the  Weekly  staff. 

Pretty  nearly  every  man  in  the  world  can  remem- 
ber the  time  when  he  succumbed  to  the  lure  of  the 
fishing  pole,  the  circus,  or  the  old  swimming  hole, 
and  played  hooky  from  school.  Consequently  I  feel 
assured  of  sympathetic  readers  for  tjiis  chapter,  at 
any  rate. 

In  order  to  tell  the  story  of  my  runaway  assignment  as  a 
"special  artist"  for  Harper's  Weekly,  it  will  be  necessary  to  give 
a  glimpse  of  the  old  art  department  as  it  existed  under  the 
supervision  of  Charles  Parsons,  a  man  of  fine  intellect  and  wide 
sympathy  and  discernment. 

He  did  for  the  men  who  came  under  his  influence  pretty  much 
what  Mr.  Belasco  has  done  for  the  people  whom  we  now  know 
as  stellar  lights  in  theatrical  skies.  He  picked  out  with  imerring 
judgment  the  points  of  excellence  of  each  raw  recruit  and  cul- 
tivated those  qualities  with  sedidous  care. 

In  those  days  news  events  were  illustrated  through  the  medium 
of  drawings  on  wood,  which  had  then  to  be  slowly  and  labori- 
ously cut,  line  for  line  and  tint  for  tint,  by  skiUful  engravers. 
This  necessitated  a  division  of  labor  by  both  artists  and  en- 
gravers in  order  to  prepare  the  plates  in  time  for  the  day  of 
publication.  After  an  outline  had  been  made  by  one  of  the 
artists,  the  block  was  taken  apart  into  as  many,  perhaps,  as 
eighteen  pieces,  and  each  man  given  his  portion  to  work  on. 

66 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

This  sounds  like  a  very  mechanical,  inartistic  way  to  produce  a 
picture,  but  it  was  on  such  work  as  this  that  Edwin  A.  Abbey, 
Arthiu-  B.  Frost,  Charles  S.  Reinhart,  and  a  score  of  others 
whose  names  are  household  words  received  much  of  their  early 
training.  Of  course,  all  these  men  were  working  outside  the 
art  department,  from  nature,  whenever  the  opportunity  offered, 
but  the  interchange  of  ideas  and  of  methods,  as  the  little  blocks 
were  passed  backward  and  forward  from  one  man  to  another, 
were  invaluable  to  the  yoimg  artist. 

Then  with  it  all  and  through  it  all  were  the  guiding  words  of 
advice  and  experience  from  Mr.  Parsons.  I  have  often  com- 
pared the  outcome  of  this  method  of  work  to  the  excellent  results 
obtained  by  the  old-fashioned  crossroads  school,  where  all  the 
young  scholars  hear  the  older  ones  recite  their  lessons,  and 
thus,  if  at  all  alert,  learn  half  their  next  year's  tasks  in  advance. 
So  it  was  that  I  had  the  inestimable  privilege  of  hearing  and  see- 
ing Mr.  Abbey  "recite."  Although  a  very  yoimg  man  at  that 
time,  he  was  begiiming  to  do  his  great  work  on  the  Herrick 
series,  yet  he  did  not  hesitate  to  lend  a  helping  hand  at  a  "news" 
block  when  he  was  needed.  As  I  said  before,  Mr.  Parsons  had 
a  faculty  of  finding  out  a  raw  recruit's  good  points,  and,  as  I 
thought  at  the  time,  he  most  unfortunately  discovered  that  I 
could  draw  very  round  wheels,  and  I  saw  myself  in  danger  of 
being  handed  down  to  posterity  as  the  wheelwright  of  Harper's 
Weekly.  I  was  kept  at  the  most  grinding  mechanical  work  by 
that  dear  and  wise  old  man  for  what  seemed  to  me  an  intermi- 
nable period.  Once  in  a  long  time  I  was  permitted  to  go  out  and 
try  my  wings;  but  after  a  flap  or  two  I  was  back  at  my  wheels 
or  far-off  crowds  or  architectural  detail. 

My  first  assignment  of  any  importance  came  diu-ing  the 
administration  of  President  Hayes.  I  was  sent  to  Minneapolis 
to  portray  the  incidents  of  his  visit  to  a  state  fair  held  there  in 
the  late  summer  of  1878.  This  I  did  to  the  best  of  my  ability, 
and  was  preparing  regretfully  to  return  to  New  York  when  a 
card  was  handed  me  at  my  hotel,  inviting  me  to  call  at  the  offices 
of  one  of  the  directors  of  the  fair. 

At  the  address  given  I  found  a  grizzled  old  soldier.  His  first 
words  sent  a  tingle  of  blood  to  my  finger  tips,  "Young  man, 

67 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

how  would  you  like  to  see  the  real  Northwest?"  Then  he  con- 
tinued: "You  are  a  long  way  from  New  York.  Why  not  go  a 
little  farther?  With  that  pencil  of  yours  you  can  make  a  record 
of  your  trip  which  will  be  very  valuable  not  only  to  you,  but 
to  the  country  through  which  you  travel."  This  is  about  all  I 
recollect  of  his  conversation,  except  that,  when  I  replied  I 
should  have  to  write  to  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  for  permis- 
sion, the  old  gentleman  sat  up,  looked  me  straight  in  the  eye, 
and  said:  "If  you  want  to  go,  telegraph  them  you  are  going. 
Come  in  and  see  me  to-morrow." 

I  went  out  of  that  office  with  visions  of  the  wild  life  of  the 
plains  dazzlmg  my  sight.  But  then  the  call  of  duty  came,  cold, 
severe,  "Back  to  the  round  wheels,  back  to  the  grind  of  Frank- 
lin Square."  Still,  New  Y'ork  was  a  long  way  off.  I  stood  at  the 
gates  of  the  Northwest,  and  the  old  soldier  was  holding  them  ajar. 

Promptly  at  the  opening  of  business  hours  on  the  next  morning 
I  appeared  at  the  old  gentleman's  office.  He  was  expecting  me 
and  he  asked  no  questions.  Instead,  he  handed  me  several  large 
envelopes  which  he  said  contained  letters  to  commanders  of  mili- 
tary posts,  owners  of  stage  routes,  post  traders,  and  so  forth. 
"  You  needn't  bother  looking  them  over  now, "  he  said;  "  but  they 
may  be  good  things  to  have  with  you  later  on."  Then  he  went 
over  a  map  with  me,  showing  the  "Bad  Lands"  of  the  Upper 
Missouri  and  the  then  new  country  of  Manitoba,  with  its  great 
lakes  and  rivers,  and  its  Hudson's  Bay  posts  with  headquarters 
at  Fort  Garry. 

I  started  next  day.  Twice  in  my  subsequent 
wanderings  a  telegram,  covered  with  mysterious 
signs  of  forwarding  and  receipt,  caught  up  with  me. 
Under  all  the  hieroglyphics  I  could  dimly  see  the 
words,  "Come  back  at  once.  Harper  &  Brothers." 
But  the  spell  of  the  wilderness  was  on  me  and  I 
only  replied, "  Please  send  me  one  hundred  dollars." 

My  route  lay  over  the  then  recently  constructed 
Northern  Pacific  Railroad  to  Bismarck,  North 
Dakota,  which  was  in  1878  the  "jumping-off  place" 

68 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

for  travel  into  the  Northwest.  The  old  famous  Dead- 
wood  stage  ran  from  Bismarck  down  into  the  Black 
Hills,  and  this  route  was  usually  preferred  to  a  rival 
line  from  Cheyenne,  for  the  reason  that  the  manager 
of  the  Deadwood  line  was  reported  to  be  paying 
the  chief  of  a  band  of  "road  agents"  who  infested 
that  territory  a  salary  to  confine  his  attentions  to 
conveyances  using  the  other  route. 

While  in  Bismarck  I  wrote  a  letter  to  Mr.  Parsons. 
In  a  paraphrased  extract  from  it  I  may  be  able  to 
give  some  impression  of  a  typical  Western  town  of 
those  crude  times. 

In  a  frontier  town  the  "opera  house"  is  a  very  important 
institution;  and  Bismarck  in  1878  boasted  a  combination  under 
one  roof  of  courtroom,  faro  bank,  saloon,  and  theater. 

It  was  thus  that  without  undue  exertion  one  could  litigate, 
speculate,  "irrigate,"  or  be  entertained,  according  to  his  tastes 
or  needs.  Perhaps  the  most  useful  of  the  four  divisions  of  this 
municipal  building  was  the  theater. 

The  courtroom  furnished  material  for  contention,  and  the 
faro  bank  was  not  far  behind  it  in  this  respect.  Contention  in 
those  days  led  to  gun-play,  and  the  saloon  furnished  inflam- 
mable material  which  often  flared  up  and  set  off  a  good  deal  of 
gunpowder.  But  the  theater  let  down  the  tension  of  those 
strenuous  times  and  promoted  peace  and  good-fellowship. 
Bismarck  was  perhaps  the  first  place  where  the  drama  was  ele- 
vated through  the  co-operation  of  the  best  citizens.  When 
performers  were  scarce  the  district  attorney  would  leave  the 
legal  atmosphere  of  the  courtroom  and  give  an  excellent  per- 
formance on  the  trapeze. 

The  first  night  I  attended  the  show  two  men  came  in  who 
seemed  to  be  bosom  friends.  One  was  small  and  slight,  the 
other  a  tall,  burly  fellow.  The  big  man  was  under  sentence  of 
death  by  hanging;  the  other  was  the  sheriff.  It  was  due  to  the 
influence  of  the  district  attorney  that  the  condemned  man  was 

69 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

allowed  the  liberty  of  the  theater — not  that  there  was  any 
maudlin  sympathy  for  the  prisoner,  but  because  the  little  sheriff 
had  no  safe  place  to  leave  him  while  attending  the  show. 

Although  normally  the  theater  was  a  factor  for  keeping  the 
peace  in  Bismarck,  yet  a  few  days  after  I  arrived  in  town  a  prac- 
tical joker  (may  his  tribe  decrease)  made  the  Bismarck  Opera 
House  the  cause  of  the  next  thing  to  a  riot.  One  of  the  regular 
patrons  of  the  theater  was  one  Shang,  a  bad  man  with  a  record 
like  an  imdertaker's.  He  had  his  regular  seat  about  halfway 
between  the  door  and  the  stage.  It  happened  that  on  this 
occasion  a  girl  jtist  from  Chicago,  who  knew  no  one  in  Bismarck, 
was  to  appear  for  the  first  time.  The  town  practical  joker  had 
written  a  song  for  her  which  reflected  on  the  family  history  of  a 
Mr.  Shang,  and  she,  entirely  innocent  of  any  idea  that  such  a 
man  as  Shang  existed  in  the  flesh,  came  out  and  sang  it  at  the 
top  of  her  voice. 

From  a  raised  seat  near  the  door  I  saw  Shang  rise  as  the  song 
ended  and  walk  out  into  the  saloon,  which  was  also  the  foyer  of 
the  theater.  The  proprietor  was  behind  the  bar.  I  followed 
Shang  out  and  heard  him  say  with  a  smile,  "That's  a  fine  singer 
you've  got  from  Chicago!"  And  as  he  said  it,  with  his  left  hand 
he  grasj>ed  the  big  man's  right  and  pulled  him  forward  across 
the  bar.  Then  with  his  right  Shang  picked  up  a  heavy  beer 
mug  and  gave  the  bartender  a  crashing  blow  in  the  face  that 
dropped  him  behind  the  counter.  With  that  Shang  disappeared 
into  the  street. 

I  went  back  to  my  seat,  and  in  a  couple  of  minutes  the  stage 
manager  came  to  the  footlights,  cast  hasty  glances  over  his 
shoulder,  and  announced  that,  "owing  to  a  slight  misunderstand- 
ing with  Mr.  Shang,"  the  performance  would  close. 

As  he  said  it,  out  went  the  lights  on  the  stage.  In  less  than 
a  moment  the  whole  place  was  in  total  darkness.  Fortunate 
indeed  it  was  that  Shang  had  come  unarmed;  but  at  the  time 
no  one  knew  that  and  everyone  expected  to  see  the  company 
shot  up  at  the  stage  door.  The  crowd  rushed  around  there, 
but  nothing  happened  beyond  Shang 's  declared  ultimatum  that 
the  opera  house  was  to  close  its  doors. 

For  two  days  the  proprietor  of  the  opera  house  nursed  a  pair 

70 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

of  black  eyes  and  declined  to  take  any  chances  of  further  damage. 
Then  the  leading  citizens  of  Bismarck  got  together  at  the  hotel 
bar  and  declared  the  town  should  not  longer  bear  the  disgrace 
of  being  bulldozed  by  one  man,  "bad"  or  otherwise. 

A  dodger  was  printed,  stating  that  the  opera  house  would 
open  that  night  and  that  "Dotty  Dolores,  the  Belle  Canto 
OF  Chicago,"  would  smg  a  new  song  especially  composed  for  the 
occasion. 

Promptly  at  eight  o'clock  the  entire  male  population  of  Bis- 
marck filed  into  the  opera  house.  Mr.  Shang  was  there  and 
took  his  accustomed  seat.  The  amount  of  arms  and  ammuni- 
tion in  that  hall  would  have  made  a  respectable  showing  in  an 
armory.  Being  about  the  only  person  present  without  a  gun, 
I  discreetly  seated  myself  near  the  door. 

The  curtain  was  rung  up  on  an  empty  stage.  There  was  a 
moment  of  dead  silence,  with  all  eyes  wandering  from  the  stage 
to  Shang  and  back;  then  Dotty  Dolores  appeared  attired  in  a 
short  black  spangled  dress;  she  carried  in  front  of  her  a  little 
wooden  stand  which  she  set  down  in  the  middle  of  the  stage 
and  then  disappeared  behind  the  scenes. 

In  a  moment  she  reapp>eared.  In  each  hand  she  held  an  enor- 
mous horse  pistol.  She  advanced  and  laid  them  crossed  on  the 
little  table.  "My  name  is  Dotty  Dolores,"  she  declared,  "and 
here  I  take  my  stand!  I'm  going  to  sing  a  song  about  what  I 
please  and  who  I  please,  and  if  JVIr.  Shang  doesn't  like  it,  he 
knows" — and  here  she  picked  up  and  flourished  the  horse 
pistols — "he  knows  what  he  will  get!" 

The  old  wheezy  piano  started  up  and  Dotty  Dolores  sang 
her  song.  Of  course,  it  entirely  avoided  any  reference  to  Mr. 
Shang's  family  tree,  but  when  Dotty  finished  there  was  an  al- 
most imperceptible  pause.  Everyone  looked  at  Shang;  the  girl's 
pluck  appealed  to  him  and  he  led  the  applause. 

It  was  less  than  two  years  previous  to  my  visit  to 
Bismarck  that  Custer's  Httle  band  had  been  anni- 
hilated by  the  warriors  of  Sitting  Bull  not  so  many 
miles  away  in  the  valley  of  the  Little  Big  Horn. 
Many  of  the  officers  and  men  under  the  command 

71 


V 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

of  Major  Reno  on  that  fateful  day  were  still  stationed 
at  the  Standing  Rock  post  (afterward  Fort  Yates), 
which  was  reached  by  a  drive  of  seventy-five  miles 
out  into  the  Bad  Lands  from  Bismarck. 

I  was  fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  "lift"  in  an 
army  ambulance  going  to  the  post.  Reno  himself, 
I  soon  discovered,  was  stationed  elsewhere;  and  it 
was  well  that  he  was,  for  the  feeling  against  him  on 
account  of  his  failure  to  go  to  Custer's  support  was 
bitter  as  death  itself.  One  and  all  felt  that 
Reno  had  disgraced  himself  and  that  some  part  of 
his  disgrace  had  undeservedly  fallen  upon  their 
shoulders. 

No  more  devoted  and  heroic  band  of  men  ever 
wore  the  uniform  of  the  United  States  than  the  offi- 
cers and  men  of  our  Regular  Army  in  those  days  of 
Indian  warfare.  They  stood  between  the  Indian, 
ever  retreating  westward,  and  the  irresistible  tide  of 
migration  of  the  white  races  from  the  overcrowded 
East.  They  were  far  kinder  and  more  merciful  to 
the  red  man  than  were  the  civilians,  but  it  was  their 
misfortune  to  have  to  repress  outbreaks  by  the 
savages,  whether  justified  or  not,  to  bear  all  the 
brunt  of  the  fighting,  and  often  take  the  blame  for 
actions  forced  upon  them  by  fate  and  fate's  immuta- 
ble decrees.  I  hope  some  day  a  writer  of  the  caliber 
of  a  John  Fiske,  if  such  there  may  be,  will  rise  up 
and  give  to  these  men  the  glorious  place  in  history 
which  they  deserve.  It  needs  only  the  simple  record 
of  the  truth,  for  their  deeds  will  shine  by  their  own 
light. 

In  the  evenings  at  Standing  Rock  we  would  repair 

72 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

to  a  little  log  hut  which  the  officers  had  clubbed 
"the  club."  There  they  would  play  dominoes  or 
poker,  and  occasionally  one  of  the  young  lieuten- 
ants, newly  arrived  from  West  Point,  would  play  the 
banjo  or  sing.  The  conversation  was  usually  about 
the  routine  of  the  day,  and  in, the  early  part  of  an 
evening  the  subject  of  the  Big  Horn  battle  was 
carefully  avoided;  but  before  the  night  was  over  it 
was  certain  to  crop  out,  and,  once  out,  it  became 
the  all-absorbing  topic  of  conversation.  At  times  I 
could  see  that  to  some  of  these  men  the  tension  was 
greater  than  they  could  bear.  One  officer  in  par- 
ticular, a  fine,  high-strung,  sensitive  fellow,  would 
sometimes  fall  into  a  curious  morose  state  and  leave 
the  club  in  silence.  One  night  at  midnight  an  old 
sergeant  in  charge  of  the  stables  came  to  the  par- 
ticular hut  in  "Slabtown"  where  I  lodged  and 
reported  to  my  host  that  Lieutenant  So-and-so  had 
saddled  his  horse  and  started  off  across  the  plains. 

"I  didn't  like  to  report  it,  sir,"  he  said  to  the 
captain,  "but  I  was  afraid  something  might  happen 
to  him."  Morning  came  and  guard  mount,  and  the 
lieutenant  had  not  returned.  We  got  out  our  horses, 
half  a  dozen  of  us,  and  started  off  into  the  Bad 
Lands  in  search  of  him,  dividing  into  two  parties, 
for  in  that  fantastically  eroded  country  there  were 
no  roads,  with  the  exception  of  a  scarcely  visible 
wagon  trail  which  the  stage  traversed  three  times  a 
week  on  its  route  to  Bismarck. 

I  remember  that  ride  very  clearly  and  painfully, 
for  to  my  lot  fell  a  rough-gaited  horse  and  a  McClel- 
lan  saddle  belonging  to  a  short,  fat  quartermaster 

73 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

who  liad  very  tiny  feet.  The  wooden  stirrups  were 
closed  in,  and  with  my  knees  up  almost  even  with 
the  horse's  back,  and  only  the  tips  of  my  toes  in  the 
stirrups,  riding  in  a  rough  country  was  anything 
but  sport.  At  the  same  time  I  did  not  dare  dismount 
to  adjust  my  stirrups  for  fear  of  losing  sight  of  my 
companions  who  were  riding  ahead  of  me. 

We  rode  hard  all  morning,  jumping  dry  gullies 
and  sliding  down  steep  banks,  a  trick  at  which  those 
Western  horses  are  very  clever,  until  at  just  about 
noon  a  shout  from  an  officer  who  was  a  little  distance 
in  advance  drew  our  attention.  He  was  pointing  to 
something  above  us  and  to  the  left.  There  at  the 
very  highest  point  on  the  edge  of  a  tremendous 
crag  our  lost  lieutenant  sat  upon  his  horse  silhouetted 
against  the  sky. 

The  three  of  us  gathered  in  a  group  to  consult  as 
to  just  what  to  do,  now  that  we  had  sighted  him. 
We  had  our  doubts  about  his  mental  condition  and 
feared  to  ride  within  hailing  distance.  There  was  no 
telling  what  he  might  do  if  we  shouted  to  him. 
While  we  were  endeavoring  to  think  of  some  plan 
of  approach  he  evidently  espied  us  and,  waving  his 
hand,  turned  his  horse  about  and  took  a  trail  invisible 
to  us  which  led  down  the  cliffside. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  rode  up  to  us,  calm  and  smil- 
ing. He  had  "ridden  it  out.'*  Nothing  was  said  by 
anyone  except  a  greeting  as  of  men  who  had  met 
on  a  morning  ride.  We  made  a  detour  to  the  south- 
ward, picked  up  the  rest  of  our  party,  and,  with  my 
stirrup  straps  lengthened  at  last,  arrived  at  the  post 
before  sundown. 

74 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

One  of  the  unwritten  laws  in  the  West  in  those  days 
was  never  to  ask  a  man  where  he  came  from  or  what 
brought  him  there;  and  I  was  very  careful  to 
observe  this  rule,  because  the  West  had  few  laws, 
and  what  there  were  seemed  founded  on  very  good 
grounds. 

One  day  I  met  a  man  who  was  running  a  steam 
sawmill  at  the  post,  and  after  a  few  days  I  noticed 
that  he  made  every  endeavor  to  talk  with  me  when- 
ever I  met  him.  He  was  a  rather  curious-looking 
person  and  had  the  appearance  of  a  man  of  good 
breeding  considerably  disguised  by  drink  and  care- 
less habits.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  running  a 
sawmill  engine  had  never  been  his  calling  in  the 
East.  He  had  a  habit  of  taking  off  his  hat  every 
few  minutes  and  running  his  hands  through  his  hair 
until  it  stood  out  all  over  his  head  like  that  of  the 
"Circassian  beauty"  in  a  side  show.  His  eyes  were 
generally  bloodshot,  and  altogether  he  was  not  a 
man  I  should  have  chosen  as  a  comrade.  Still,  he 
seemed  to  have  picked  me  out  as  a  valued  acquaint- 
ance and  I  had  to  treat  him  with  a  semblance  of 
consideration. 

One  evening  after  dinner  I  stepped  out  of  the 
old  shed  in  which  I  was  quartered,  thinking  to  go 
over  to  the  club.  I  found  my  friend  the  engineer 
waiting  for  me.  He  proposed  that  we  take  a  walk 
over  to  the  home  of  an  old  Indian  woman  who  lived 
down  on  the  banks  of  the  Missouri,  just  outside  the 
reservation. 

This  woman  was  a  really  fine  character.  She  was 
the  widow  of  an  old  French  trader  and  had  on  more 

75 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

than  one  occasion  prevented  attacks  on  the  whites 
by  her  own  people.  She  had  several  daughters  who 
were  educated  and  refined  women.  I  was  very  glad 
of  a  chance  to  see  this  household,  so  we  set  out  over 
the  hills  at  twilight,  avoiding  the  Indian  villages  on 
account  of  the  dogs,  and  arrived  after  a  four-mile 
walk  at  one  of  the  most  curious  homes  it  was  ever 
my  good  luck  to  visit.  The  house,  built  of  cotton- 
wood  logs  and  adobe,  nestled  in  what  they  call  a 
"draw"  in  the  West.  In  part  it  was  a  dugout,  several 
of  the  rooms  running  well  back  into  the  bluff. 

The  moon  was  coming  up  when  we  arrived,  and 
its  silver  track  could  be  seen  on  the  river  below. 
The  house  was  so  much  a  part  of  the  bluff  that  it 
looked  small  in  the  half  light,  but  on  entering  we 
were,  to  our  surprise,  taken  through  several  good- 
sized  rooms  and  passageways  into  the  principal 
living  room. 

We  were  received  by  the  Indian  woman's  eldest 
daughter,  who  had  come  from  her  home  in  St.  Louis 

on  a  visit  to  her  mother.    Mrs.  D ,  the  daughter, 

was  a  graduate  of  an  Eastern  college  and  had  the 
well-bred  manner  of  a  woman  used  to  the  refine- 
ments of  civilization.  Her  mother,  dressed  in  full 
Indian  costiune,  greeted  us  pleasantly  and  called  a 
woman  servant  in  Indian  dress  to  take  our  hats. 

The  daughter  showed  the  Indian  strain  of  blood 
so  little  that  it  was  impossible  to  realize  we  were 
not  in  an  Eastern  drawing-room,  until  her  young 
sister,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  came  in.  She  was  fresh  from 
an  Eastern  boarding  school  and  had  every  little  air 
and  grace  of  a  white  schoolgirl  of  that  age — all  that 

76 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

exaggeration  of  "grown-up"  mannerisms  which 
very  young  girls  affect — but  she  was  pure  Indian  in 
type.  Her  hair  was  intensely  black  and  straight,  her 
complexion  dark,  and  her  eyes  contained  fathomless 
depths. 

Mrs.  D had  inherited  from  her  French  father 

a  faculty  of  brilliant  wit.  It  was  curious  to  note 
how  it  supplemented  the  peculiar  quality  of  the 
Indian  mind,  which,  as  I  have  often  found,  is  full  of 
a  deep  satirical  humor.  The  full-blood  Indian 
mother  was  reputed  to  be  a  rich  woman.  She  still 
carried  on  the  trading  business  established  by  her 
French  husband,  and  my  real  business  out  there  that 
night  was  to  purchase  some  Indian  beadwork  and 
costumes.  I  succeeded  in  gettmg,  among  other 
things,  a  Sioux  bead  belt  of  great  beauty  and  some 
handsome  moccasins. 

I  had  noticed  that  my  companion  was  very  rest- 
less during  the  evening.  His  nerves  seemed  to  be 
jumping  in  a  very  uncomfortable  way  and  he  ran 
his  bony  fingers  through  his  hair  more  frequently 
than  ever.  I  put  it  all  to  the  credit,  or  discredit,  of 
drink;  but  whatever  the  cause,  I  felt  sorry  for  the 
poor  fellow.  However,  we  had  not  gone  far  on  our 
wajT^  back  to  the  post  when  he  almost  collapsed. 

I  was  afraid  I  should  not  be  able  to  get  him  home. 
His  trouble  seemed  to  be  as  much  mental  as  physical, 
for  he  mumbled  incessantly  to  himself  and  at  last 
turned  to  me  and  said,  in  a  curious,  harsh  tone,  "I 
have  gone  as  far  as  I  can  go." 

We  sat  down  in  the  moonlight  on  the  edge  of  a 
dry  gully,  and  it  was  so  still  I  could  hear  the  labored 

77 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

breathing  of  the  poor,  shaking  man  beside  me.  I 
felt  a  great  pity  for  him  and  started  to  express  my 
sympathy,  when  he  held  up  his  hand  and  in  the 
same  strained,  harsh  tone  said: 

"Don't  say  a  word  to  me.  I  have  gone  as  far  as 
I  can.  I  must  talk.  I  haven't  dared  say  a  word  to 
a  soul  in  seven  months.    I've  got  to  talk! 

*'I've  been  studying  you  ever  since  you  came  here. 
I  trust  you,  boy;  but,  trust  you  or  not,  I've  gone  as 
far  as  I  can  go.  By  God!  I've  got  to  tell  it!  I'm 
out  here  because  seven  months  ago  in  Chicago  I 
killed  a  man!  Yes,  by  the  God  above!  I  killed  him — 
after  he  drove  me  to  it!  And  over  and  over  I  go 
through  it  again.  Every  night  I  see  it  all,  and  his 
face  turned  up  toward  the  sky  that  he  couldn't  see!" 

He  sat  there  clasping  his  hands  together,  and  then, 
clenching  his  fists  above  his  head,  rocking  his  body 
to  and  fro. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  how  one's  standards  of  ab- 
stract right  and  wrong  all  fall  down  when  one's 
human  side  is  directly  appealed  to.  I  suppose  I 
should  have  been  shocked  and  horrified  at  the  crime 
this  poor,  shivering  wretch  had  committed,  but  I 
remember  well  how  we  sat  there  for  an  hour  like 
two  brothers,  my  arm  around  his  bent  shoulders, 
while  he  poured  out  his  story  in  all  its  detail. 

It  was  a  terrible  story  and  it  has  no  place  here; 
but  the  telling  of  it  then  perhaps  saved  that  poor 
fellow's  reason. 

I  do  not  know  that  he  was  justified  at  all  in  that 
killing — I  rather  doubt  it — but  if  the  suffering  of  the 
damned  could  expiate  a  crime,  his  punishment  was 

78 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

sufficient.  My  place,  it  seemed  to  me  that  night, 
was  to  do  all  I  could  to  help  a  tortured  soul. 

About  one  o'clock  we  passed  the  sentry  at  the 
post  and  my  companion,  greatly  calmed,  bade  me 
good  night  and  we  parted.  I  carried  my  Indian 
belt  and  moccasins,  which  I  had  slung  over  my 
shoulder,  to  my  quarters.  In  order  to  avoid  waking 
the  two  officers  who  slept  there  I  opened  the  door 
very  quietly,  but  no  sound  was  so  light  as  to  escape 
the  ears  of  the  great  mastiff  which  was  owned  by 
one  of  them  and  had  acquired  the  habit  of  sleeping 
under  my  cot.  Entering  the  door  in  the  half  light, 
I  saw  his  great  body  hurtling  toward  me  as  he  sprang 
for  my  throat. 

Instantly  I  realized  that  it  was  the  smell  of  the 
Indian  stuff  on  my  shoulder  that  had  enraged  him, 
and,  throwing  it  in  the  air,  I  ducked  low  just  as  the 
great  beast  sank  his  teeth  into  the  belt.  I  called 
him  by  name  and  he  instantly  recognized  me,  but 
he  slunk  back  under  the  bed  still  growling  as  the 
hated  scent  continued  to  reach  his  sensitive  nostrils. 
I  thanked  my  stars  that  I  had  not  followed  a  whim- 
sical notion  to  put  the  belt  on. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FOR  three  weeks  I  had  Hved  the  Hfe  of  "Slab- 
town,"  the  candid  name  given  in  those  days 
to  the  officers'  quarters  at  Fort  Yates.  The 
enhsted  men  hved  in  neat  shingle-roofed  barracks, 
but  the  officers  were  quartered  in  a  lot  of  slab- 
walled,  mud-roofed  sheds,  any  one  of  which  would 
have  been  condemned  as  unfit  shelter  for  an  army 
mule. 

"Slabtown"  with  all  its  drawbacks  had  afforded 
me  the  finest  hospitality.  My  corner  in  the  quarter- 
master's house  was  dry  except  in  heavy  rains,  and 
the  great  mastiff  which  slept  under  my  cot  con- 
tributed a  feeling  of  security  not  to  be  despised. 
Now  I  had  ah-eady  bidden  good-by  to  my  kind  hosts. 
The  Bad  Lands  "stage,"  an  open,  two-seated  mail 
wagon,  was  to  stop  for  me  at  daybreak  and  carry 
me  the  seventy  miles  back  to  Bismarck,  from  which 
place  I  intended  taking  a  railway  train  eastward  to 
Fargo,  thence  to  descend  the  Red  River  of  the  North 
to  Fort  Garry. 

I  seemed  to  have  just  fallen  asleep  when  a  great 
heave  of  the  faithful  backbone  underneath  my  bed, 
followed  by  a  deep  growl,  brought  me  sharply  to 
myself.  Outside,  some  one  was  tapping  lightly  on 
the  window.  I  got  up  quickly  and,  with  the  hound 
at  my  heels,  went  to  the  door.    There  I  found  the 

80 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

stage  driver.  He  apologized  for  his  untimely  visit 
(it  was  just  midnight),  but  wanted  to  know  if  I 
v/ould  mind,  "as  a  great  favor  and  to  lift  a  good 
man  outer  a  hard  place,"  getting  into  my  clothes 
and  starting  on  my  journey  at  once. 

Exposure  to  rain  and  sun,  fierce  heat  and  bitter 
cold  had  beaten  every  soft  line  out  of  the  driver's 
face  and  faded  his  hair  to  the  color  of  tow,  but  his 
eyes  were  just  the  same,  I  imagined,  as  they  must 
have  been  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  had  a  young, 
kindly  face  to  match  them.  He  came  in  and  sat 
down  on  my  cot  while  I  hurriedly  dressed. 

Then  he  explained  what  the  trouble  was  and  how 
he  wanted  my  assistance. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  into  this  thing  'thout 
knowin'  what  you're  gettin'  inter;  but  there's  a  man 
here  who's  been  ordered  off  the  reservation.  I 
knowed  him  when  he  was  all  right,  an'  now  he's  no 
good  and  got  an  abyration  of  his  mind,  and  he's 
been  ordered  off  in  twenty-four  hours  as  a  disorderly 
and  dangerous  person. 

"He's  spent  many's  the  dollar  on  the  stage  com- 
pany travelin'  from  post  to  ix)st,  fixin'  up  post 
traders'  an'  Indian  agents'  books  for  'em — he's  an 
expert  accountant  an'  made  big  money  at  it — but  he 
got  a-drinkin',  and  three  weeks  ago  he  took  a  horse 
and  went  out,  all  fired  up,  into  the  Bad  Lands.  Last 
Monday  he  come  back  afoot,  wrong  in  his  head, 
and  without  a  cent  on  him.  Now  he's  a  nuisance, 
they  say,  and  he's  got  ter  git.  He  can't  pay  his 
fare  to  Bismarck  on  the  stage  (it's  nine  dollars), 
and  if  I  take  him  and  the  company  finds  it  out  I'll 

81 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

have  to  pay  his  fare  myself,  and  likely  lose  my  job 
besides.  You're  the  only  passenger  that's  goin'  out 
this  trip  and  I  ask  you  as  a  man,"  and  here  he  bit 
a  large  piece  off  a  black  plug,  "if  you'll  help  me  git 
him  to  Bismarck  and  say  nothin'  about  it  to  the 
company." 

This  appeal,  which  he  got  out  with  a  good  deal  of 
difficulty  and  as  though  he  felt  he  was  proposing 
something  very  much  in  the  nature  of  a  crime,  backed 
up  as  it  was  by  the  deep  kindliness  of  the  honest 
eyes  set  in  his  weatherbeaten  face,  won  my  instant 
consent.  He  came  over  and  shook  my  hand,  told 
me  his  name  was  Jim  Caldwell,  and  he  was  glad  to 
make  my  acquaintance.  With  a  warning  that  I  had 
best  shut  the  dog  in  before  he  drove  up  to  the  door, 
he  returned  to  the  stables  for  his  team. 

I  coaxed  the  great  mastiff  to  his  bed  under  my 
cot,  stroked  his  fine  head  a  moment  or  two,  and 
then,  carrying  my  bag  outside  the  ramshackle  house, 
carefully  closed  the  door. 

Standing  out  there  in  darkness,  relieved  only  by 
the  deep-red  glow  in  the  northwestern  sky  from  a 
distant  prairie  fire,  I  had  the  other  side  of  the  situa- 
tion thrust  very  uncomfortably  on  my  attention. 
Here  I  was  about  to  commence  a  long  night  journey 
through  a  rough,  uninhabited  country  with  a  man 
who  had  an  "aby ration  of  his  mind"  and  had  been 
pronounced  disorderly  and  dangerous,  for  my  sole 
fellow-passenger.  All  the  old  stories  about  the  won- 
derful strength  and  reckless  ways  of  exerting  it,  com- 
mon to  men  in  his  condition,  came  trooping  up 
before  me,  and  I  was  beginning  to  have  a  chilly  feeling 

82 


■  ,■!  /■". 


-^^'.. 


l«|! 


-^.-v. 


TRYING  TO  LOWER  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  TEMPERATURE 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

creep  up  my  back  when  the  stage  drove  up  to  the 
door. 

The  driver,  without  a  word,  put  out  his  hand  for 
my  bag  and  hel{)ed  me  to  a  seat  beside  him. 

"Where  is  your  man?"  I  asked  in  a  low  voice,  for 
the  rear  seat  was  unoccupied. 

"Under  the  mail  bags,"  he  replied  in  a  whisper, 
"and  if  he'll  keep  quiet  till  we  git  past  the  sentries 
it  '11  be  more  luck  than  I  look  for." 

If  the  last  sentry,  as  we  cleared  the  fort,  had  not 
been  exceedingly  sleepy  he  must  have  observed  that 
the  United  States  mail  was  certainly  alive  when  we 
passed  him,  for  I  had  to  creep  back  over  the  seats 
and  sit  down  on  the  mail  bags  very  hard  to  keep  our 
stowaway  passenger  from  coming  to  light.  We  were 
well  out  on  a  level  stretch  of  road,  north  of  the  fort, 
before  I  felt  it  was  safe  to  let  the  poor,  smothered 
fellow  out  from  his  hiding  place.  Then  he  raised 
himself  up — he  was  a  big  man  of  fine  physique,  as 
I  well  remember — and  we  sat  there  under  the  dim- 
red  glow  of  the  northwestern  sky,  with  just  the 
width  of  the  wagon  bed  between  us,  and  looked  at 
each  other. 

The  poor  fellow  was  angry ;  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  glare  in  his  eye  and  his  threatening  attitude. 
To  be  sat  on  for  fifteen  minutes  by  a  stranger,  while 
being  jolted  over  a  rough  road,  was  a  state  of  affairs 
calculated  to  stir  up  the  wi'ath  of  a  man  in  his  right 
mind.  My  task  was  to  explain  the  situation  to  a 
man  whose  mind  had  strayed  away  somewhere  on 
those  waterless  plains,  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  to  be 
found  again!    I  sat  there  watching  him  as  a  mouse 

83 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

might  a  cat,  every  fiber  of  my  being  strung  up  to  a 
defensive  encounter  in  which  I  saw  I  must  be 
worsted.  Suddenly  I  heard  myself  say,  as  though  it 
were  some  one  else  speaking,  in  a  most  indifferent, 
careless  tone: 

"It's  a  very  cool  evening,  sir." 

"Quite  so,"  he  replied,  and  then  he  took  the  rear 
seat,  while  I  climbed  forward  to  my  own. 

Jim,  the  driver,  who  had  kept  an  eye  on  us,  said 
nothing;  but  he  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  and  furtively 
looked  me  over,  a  good  deal  as  a  veteran  would  a 
raw  recruit  who  had  neglected  to  run  away  at  the 
first  fire. 

As  for  me,  I  sat  there  wondering  what  good  angel 
had  wagged  my  tongue  for  me  to  such  good  purpose, 
for  it  was  only  because  I  knew  my  own  voice  that 
I  was  sure  I  had  spoken.  We  had  gone  but  a  little 
way  farther  when  we  came  to  an  outlying  Indian 
village. 

Jim  hadn't  thought  what  a  commotion  our  driv- 
ing through  it  at  such  an  unusual  hour  would  stir  up. 

We  had  barely  passed  the  first  tepee  before  we 
were  surrounded  by  more  kinds  of  dogs  than  are 
to  be  found  in  all  the  Eastern  states.  A  wolfish 
strain  appeared  to  run  through  all  this  tribe  of  hybrid 
dogdom,  and  if  their  bodies  differed  jn  size  and 
shapye  and  shagginess  they  were  one  in  their  pro- 
longed and  dismal  howling.  Another  peculiarity  of 
the  Indian  dog  is  that  he  seldom  reaches  old  age 
with  a  tail  to  wag,  though,  to  be  sure,  he  usually 
has  but  little  to  wag  it  over.  Very  fortunately,  my 
fellow-passenger    was   just    as   much    afraid   of   the 

84 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

snapping,  snarling  pack  that  surrounded  the  wagon 
as  I  was.  If  the  notion  had  struck  him  to  get  out 
and  fight  them,  he  must  certainly  have  been  torn 
to  pieces.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  burrowed  under 
the  mail  bags  in  fear  and  trembling  and  did  not 
venture  forth  again  until  we  were  far  out  on  the 
uplands. 

Where  the  wind  had  full  sweep  it  was  very  cold, 
and  we  got  out  a  pair  of  gray  blankets,  wi-apped  the 
poor  accountant  up  from  head  to  foot  in  them,  and 
settled  him  comfortably  in  his  seat.  Then  we  drove 
on;  the  road  was  rough  and  the  wagon  made  a  great 
racket  in  the  dark,  still  night.  Suddenly  Jim  pulled 
up  his  horses  with  a  jerk  and  nearly  fell  out  of  his 
seat.  I  brought  up  against  the  dashboard,  but  was 
in  no  danger  of  falling  out  of  the  wagon,  for  some- 
thing had  seized  my  right  ankle  with  a  grip  of 
steel.  As  I  looked  down,  there,  gazing  up  at  me 
from  between  Jim's  feet  and  mine,  was  the  face 
of  our  passenger.  His  left  hand  was  clasped  about 
Jim's  ankle  and  his  right  around  mine.  He  didn't 
seem  disposed  to  let  go,  insisted  that  he  was  com- 
fortable lying  on  the  bottom  of  the  wagon  with  his 
legs  propped  up  against  the  rear  seat  and  his  feet 
waving  about  in  the  air,  and  tried,  with  a  cunning 
smile,  to  persuade  us  it  was  a  most  natural  position. 

We  did  our  best  to  coax  and  wheedle  him  into 
getting  back  on  his  seat,  but  in  vain. 

Jim  whispered  to  me  that  he  couldn't  drive 
through  the  Bad  Lands  with  that  face  staring  up 
at  him.  Finally,  when  we  least  expected  it,  a  new 
notion  came  to  our  friend  and  he  rolled  himself  up 

85 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

carefully  in  his  blanket  and  resumed  his  seat.  Every- 
thing went  well  for  a  time — he  seemed  to  have 
become  drowsy;  the  road  was  much  cut  up  with 
gullies,  and  Jim  had  all  he  could  do  to  watch  his 
horses.  I  kept  looking  back  from  time  to  time, 
but,  finding  everything  quiet,  dozed  off  at  last, 
myself.  It  was  Jim's  hand  on  my  arm  that  awakened 
me,  and  my  first  thought  was  to  look  back.  Our 
passenger  had  disappeared! 

It  is  hard  to  describe  our  predicament  so  that  one 
who  reads  this  in  the  quiet  surroundings  of  streets 
and  houses  and  the  safeguards  of  a  settled  country 
can  realize  it.  It  was  as  though  we  had  let  a  child 
stray  away  from  us  into  the  terrors  of  the  night. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  undertake  the  diflB- 
cult  task  of  recovering  our  lost  passenger. 

"He  can't  be  far,"  said  Jim,  "but  if  he's  tryin'  to 
give  us  the  slip,  we  kin  never  find  him  in  this  devil's 
country!" 

Unlashing  the  lantern  from  the  dashboard,  I 
started  back  over  the  road  to  look  for  him.  I  was  to 
go  back  not  more  than  half  a  mile,  and,  should  I  fail 
to  find  him,  was  then  to  return  to  the  wagon.  It 
wasn't  a  pleasant  errand,  and,  as  I  stumbled  across 
gullies,  skirting  weatherworn  hills  that  rose  in 
jagged  outline  to  the  west,  I  kept  hoping  and  rather 
dreading  to  meet  my  troublesome  fellow-traveler 
at  every  turn  of  the  road.  Even  though  I  should 
find  him,  it  was  a  question  whether  or  not  he  would 
return  to  the  wagon  with  me. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  tramp  on,  looking 
up  and  down  the  dry  gullies  and  trusting  to  some 

86 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

fortunate  chance  to  suggest  a  way  of  coaxing  him 
back  to  the  wagon  if  he  came  in  range  of  my  lantern. 
I  had  come  to  a  bit  of  swamp  that  was  corduroyed, 
which  I  dimly  remembered  jolting  over  as  we  crossed 
it  in  the  wagon.  There  was  something  going  on  at 
the  farther  side  of  it — a  great  splashing  and  falling 
of  logs  one  on  another.  I  held  the  lantern  before 
me  and  made  my  way  across  the  creaking  logs. 
There,  up  to  his  knees  in  the  swamp,  was  our  lost 
passenger,  busily  tearing  up  and  prying  out  the  tree 
trunks  that  formed  the  roadway.  Evidently  he  had 
been  annoyed  by  the  jolting  and  had  slipped  out  of 
the  wagon  and  proceeded  to  tear  up  the  offending 
roadbed. 

I  swung  my  lantern  around  until  it  caught  his 
eye,  then  stood  still,  saying  nothing,  but  waiting 
for  him  to  forget  his  present  occupation  and  hoping 
his  next  notion  would  be  to  follow  my  lantern. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  that  his  glittering  eyes 
rested  on  me.  It  was  certainly  an  uncomfortable 
time,  for  I  had  seen  him  tear  up  logs  that,  jammed 
as  they  were  in  the  mud,  were  enough  for  three  men 
to  handle;  and  I  knew  that  the  first  thing  to  enter 
his  poor,  empty  head  would  be  the  thing  he  would 
do.  Presently  he  pulled  himself  out  of  the  mud, 
picked  up  his  blanket,  which  he  had  left  in  the  road- 
way, and,  wrapping  himself  up  from  head  to  foot 
in  it,  stood  up  before  me. 

I  turned  about  and  slowly  walked  back  in  the 
direction  of  the  wagon,  listening  intently  all  the 
while  for  his  footsteps.  A  man  walking  on  a  corduroy 
road  steps  about  as  he  does  on  railroad  ties — not 

87 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

always  finding  a  log  just  where  he  expects  it,  he 
makes  long  and  short  strides.  Soon  I  heard  my 
man  shuffling  irregularly  along  over  the  logs  after 
me.  Before  we  had  left  the  little  swamp  far  behind 
he  halted  at  the  mouth  of  a  gully,  and  I  set  my  lan- 
tern down  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  waited, 
fearing  that  he  would  strike  out  into  the  hills;  but 
instead  he  sat  down  and  pulled  off  his  boots,  which 
were  full  of  water,  and  started  forward  again  in  his 
stocking  feet. 

Here  was  an  awkward  problem  added  to  the  one 
I  already  had  on  my  hands — how  to  get  possession 
of  those  boots  without  losing  their  owner.  Its  solu- 
tion came  to  me  at  the  time  as  a  kind  of  grim  joke. 
I  picked  up  my  lantern  and  let  my  poor  friend  come 
up  close  behind  me  as  I  trudged  along  for  a  few 
rods;  then  I  wheeled  around  in  as  large  a  circle  as 
the  roadway  permitted  and  we  retraced  our  steps  to 
the  boots.  I  picked  these  up  and  was  about  to 
repeat  the  wheeling  about,  when  my  fellow-passenger 
suddenly  became  very  angry,  tore  the  boots  from  my 
hand,  sat  down  at  the  side  of  the  road,  and,  after  a 
hard  tussle,  pulled  them  on. 

We  resumed  our  march  back  to  the  wagon.  Ar- 
rived there,  I  secured  the  lantern,  climbed  aboard 
in  as  matter-of-fact  a  way  as  possible,  and  a  moment 
later  our  charge  pulled  himself  up  to  his  seat  in  the 
same  manner.  Then,  without  a  word  being  said,  we 
drove  on. 

I  was  shivering  and  cold  now  that  the  strain  was 
over,  and  well  I  remember  how  carefully  Jim  wrapped 
a  big  gray  blanket  around  me.    There  was  gratitude 

88 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

and  an  apology  for  mixing  me  up  in  this  troublesome 
adventure  in  the  way  he  did  it. 

Our  passenger  had  done  nothing  violent  to  speak 
of,  so  far;  in  fact,  we  had  been  surprised  to  see  how 
easily  we  had  controlled  him.  Yet,  somehow,  the 
farther  we  traveled  that  night  the  harder  it  was  to 
keep  our  nerves  steady. 

By  this  time  we  had  swung  well  away  to  the  west- 
ward from  the  river— Fort  Yates  stood  on  a  high 
bluff  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Missouri — and  were 
wending  our  way  among  the  grim  buttes  of  the 
veritable  Bad  Lands.  It  does  not  require  any  great 
amount  of  imagination  to  see  in  these  weatherworn 
crags  Gargantuan  castles,  cities,  and  towers;  and  I 
am  free  to  admit  that,  although  I  have  traversed 
that  country  several  times,  it  has  never  been  with- 
out an  unreasonable  but  unconquerable  feeling  of 
dread.  On  this  night  all  the  somberness  of  that 
broken  land  was  accentuated  by  the  deepening  red 
glow  in  the  northwestern  sky  and  the  strange  com- 
pany in  which  I  found  myself. 

"Them  buttes  make  'most  everybody  talk  queer 
when  they  first  see  'em,"  said  Jim.  "I  had  a  passen- 
ger wonct;  he  was  a  kin'  of  a  letcherer  goin'  around, 
I  think,  and  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  big  way,  'This, 
gentlemen,  is  the  arketekcher  of  Hades.'  I  asked 
another  passenger,  an  old  trooper,  what  he  meant  by 
that,  an'  he  said  he  meant  'it  looked  like  hell.'  I've 
got  so  I've  named  the  worst-looking  of  them  buttes 
kinder  common  names  like  the  'deepo'  and  the 
*opery  house'  and  such — it  makes  it  easier  to  pass 
'em  of  a  dark  night." 

89 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

To  make  matters  worse,  It  soon  became  evident 
that  we  were  going  to  encounter  at  least  the  out- 
skirts of  a  great  prairie  fire  before  the  night  was 
over,  and,  while  we  knew  what  to  do  and  had  no 
fear  of  being  caught,  yet  we  were  fearful  of  the  effect 
of  it  on  our  unfortunate  comrade.  He,  by  the  way, 
was  pretty  well  exhausted  from  his  exertions  in 
tearing  up  the  corduroy  road,  and,  rolled  in  his 
blanket,  lay  fast  asleep  on  the  rear  seat. 

The  wind  was  rising  and  the  faint  odor  of  burning 
grasses  was  beginning  to  reach  us.  Jim  had  driven 
over  that  road  with  many  a  prairie  fire  raging  about 
him  before. 

"Long  as  I  got  matches  no  perarry  fire  can't  catcli 
me;  all  yer  got  to  do  if  it  gets  too  clost  is  to  set 
fire  t'  the  grasses  to  leeward  and  drive  right  over  the 
black  stubble.  But  how  will  he  take  it  if  we  git  near 
a  big  blaze. f^  I'm  feared  of  his  running  into  it  like  a 
fool  horse  '11  do." 

As  the  night  wore  on  we  settled  down  into  almost 
absolute  silence.  Jim  and  I  were  troubled  a  good 
deal  by  the  smoke,  but  our  charge,  with  his  head 
wrapped  up  in  his  blanket,  still  slept  soundly.  It 
was  along  in  this  part  of  the  night  that  we  heard  the 
long,  mournful  howl  of  a  dog  or  wolf — I  could  not 
have  told  which.  Jim  only  remarked,  "Injun  dog," 
and  as  I  knew  we  were  beyond  the  bounds  of  the 
reservation,  I  inquired  what  kind  of  Indians  he  sup- 
posed owned  that  dog. 

"Hostiles  drove  in  by  cold  weather,"  he  replied. 
"Some  of  Sittin'  Bull's  crowd  comin'  down  from 
Canady,  I  reckon.    I  used  to  carry  a  gun  for  them 

90 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

fellers;  but  they  don't  go  around  with  targets 
painted  on  'em,  waitin'  to  be  hit,  and  I  said  to  my- 
self one  day,  *Yer  safer  without  a  gun.  If  they 
want  to  shoot  you,  they'll  lay  for  you  in  the  dark  an' 
do  it.'    So  I  hain't  carried  a  gun  since." 

We  presently  heard  the  swish  of  tent  poles  being 
dragged  through  the  grass  by  a  pony,  and  then  the 
grim  figure  of  an  old  buck  on  horseback,  with  a  rifle 
across  his  saddle  bow,  appeared  coming  toward  us. 
Behind  him  came  a  pony  loaded  down  with  four  or 
five  youngsters,  besides  the  tent  poles,  so  that  his 
back  was  bowed.  Then  came  a  still  smaller  pony — 
a  yearling  colt,  it  looked — with  a  tiny  youngster 
strapped  on  its  back,  two  or  three  dogs  loaded  down 
with  camp  stuff,  and  finally  an  old  squaw  sturdily 
tramping  along,  with  a  baby  and  everything  else 
there  was  left  of  the  family  belongings  packed  on 
her  back.  They  passed  by  with  a  "How!"  and  we 
were  well  pleased  that  our  poor  absent-minded  friend 
snored  through  it  all  in  the  seclusion  of  his  blanket. 

We  had  come  out  from  the  lee  of  an  enormous 
hill  known  as  Castle  Butte,  which  had  sheltered  us 
from  the  wind  for  a  mile  or  two,  and  were  now  on  a 
more  op>en  stretch  of  prairie  where  the  smoke-laden 
wind  caught  us  with  a  full  blast. 

"You've  got  to  git  behind  one  of  them  little  buttes 
ahead  pretty  quick  if  you  don't  wanter  git  your 
tails  singed,"  Jim  muttered  to  his  horses;  and  he 
gave  them  what  might  be  termed  more  than  a  taste 
of  the  whip,  for  the  first  time  that  night.  So  far  we 
had  seen  only  the  reflection  of  the  fire  in  the  sky; 
now  we  could  see  the  flames  themselves,  broken 

91 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

here  and  there  by  the  irregularity  of  the  land  and 
many  miles  away,  but  traveling  toward  us  like  a 
pack  of  wolves. 

"There's  a  big  gully  washed  out  at  the  fur  end  of 
the  'court  house'"  (the  keen  lash  cracked  in  the 
direction  of  a  particularly  nasty-looking  crag  ahead), 
"and  if  we  can  only  make  it  we  can  pull  up  in  there 
an'  our  deadhead  passenger  '11  never  know  there  was 
a  perarry  fire." 

We  made  a  gallant  race  against  the  onrushing 
flames  for  the  "court  house,"  and  if  one  of  our 
horses  hadn't  picked  up  a  stone  we  should  have  won 
it;  but  the  wind  was  blowing  a  gale,  with  now  a 
lull  for  a  moment  and  then  a  fiercer  blast  than  before. 
The  smoke  was  suffocating,  and  at  last  it  set  our  poor 
accountant  to  gasping  in  his  blanket.  A  long  line 
of  flame  seemed  to  shoot  forward  ahead  of  us  like  a 
train    of   gunpowder. 

"We  can't  make  it,"  whispered  Jim  in  my  ear. 
"I  hope  he  won't  get  excited.  Try  an'  keep  him 
tangled  up  in  his  blanket  while  I  set  fire  to  the 
grass."  In  a  moment  Jim  had  an  old  newspaper  on 
fire  and  had  started  a  blaze  in  half  a  dozen  places. 
The  grass  burned  slowly  at  first,  but  when  the  flames 
had  once  united,  away  the  fire  sped  like  some  wild 
creature  trying  to  escape  the  mighty  sea  of  flame 
that  was  following  it,  now  barely  half  a  mile  away. 

Then  our  passenger  sat  up  and  tore  off  bis  blanket 
and  looked  wildly  about  at  the  blazing  prairie, 
while  I,  having  all  I  could  do  to  hold  the  plunging 
and  terrified  horses,  was  powerless  to  prevent  him 
from  doing  whatever  he  chose. 

92 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

"With  a  cry  of,  "Save  the  mail  first!"  he  began 
tossing  the  mail  bags  out  of  the  wagon. 

Then  I  saw  Jim  coming.  With  one  bound  he  was 
in  the  wagon  and,  with  his  powerful  arms  gripping 
the  poor,  daft  creature  about  the  legs,  had  tripped 
him  up;  a  second  more  and  the  two  men  were  in  the 
bottom  of  the  wagon,  struggling  for  their  lives,  and 
from  the  confused  black  mass  came  Jim's  voice; 
"Git  onter  the  stubble!" 

The  frantic  team  needed  no  urging  and,  with  the 
half-burnt  grass  showering  sparks  from  our  wheels, 
we  tore  after  the  retreating  backfire. 

Before  we  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  Jim  had 
shaken  himself  free  from  the  terrible  grip  of  his 
passenger  and  called  to  me  to  drive  on,  that  he  was 
going  back  after  the  two  mail  bags  which  had  been 
thrown  out.  He  slipped  over  the  tailboard  and 
started  back  toward  the  trail.  I  drove  on  fifty 
yards  farther  and  then  pulled  up  the  horses  and 
looked  back.  It  was  like  looking  into  the  mouth  of 
a  furnace;  there  was  nothing  but  fire — except  the 
tiny  black  figure  outlined  against  it.  That  was  Jim. 
I  saw  him  stoop  and  pick  up  a  mail  bag  and  grope 
about  for  the  other;  then  came  a  fearful  blast  of 
fire-laden  air  and  I  could  see  nothing  but  flame. 

My  fellow-passenger  lay  stretched  out  on  the 
mail  bags  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon;  his  seat  had 
been  overturned  and  knocked  out  of  the  wagon 
during  the  struggle.  Whether  he  was  alive  or  dead 
I  did  not  know,  but  that  he  could  do  no  harm  at 
present  was  a  certainty.  I  jumped  to  the  ground, 
slipped  loose  the  traces,  and  secured  the  horses  as 

93 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

best  I  could  to  the  tongue  of  the  wagon;  while  I 
was  doing  this  the  flaming  sky  seemed  suddenly 
rent  apart,  one-haK  going  by  to  the  right,  the  other 
to  the  left.  In  a  moment  it  had  passed,  leaving  the 
stars  shining  through  a  veil  of  smoke.  I  started 
back  over  the  smoldering  stubble  to  find  Jim,  and 
soon  saw  a  blackened  figure  coming  slowly  toward 
me,  dragging  along  the  two  mail  bags,  his  hair 
singed  and  his  hands  badly  blistered. 

"I  thought  I  was  gone  over  the  range  that  time, 
sure,"  he  said.  "I  just  laid  flat  and  pulled  the  mail 
bags  clost  over  my  head  when  the  fire  flashed  over 
me.  They  took  fire,  of  course,  but  I  trampled  it  out 
when  the  big  flame  got  by. 

"How's  ^e.^"  continued  Jim,  gripping  my  arm. 
"I  hope  I  didn't  choke  him  too  hard,  but  I  had  to 
pertect  the  mail." 

We  made  our  way  back  to  the  wagon  with  a  good 
deal  of  dread,  and  Jim  said:  "You  take  the  lantern 
an'  look  at  him.  Dern  me  if  I  can."  I  took  the 
light  and,  standing  on  the  wheel,  managed  to  turn 
him  over;  he  gave  no  sign  of  life.  I  opened  my 
traveling  bag  and  got  out  a  flask  of  whisky,  and  with 
a  good  deal  of  difficulty  got  his  mouth  open  wide 
enough  to  pour  in  a  few  drops.  He  gave  a  gasp  and 
swallowed.  That  was  enough  for  Jim.  He  went  off 
a  little  way  and  coughed  a  few  times;  then  he  came 
back,  put  the  wagon  to  rights,  hitched  up  his  team, 
and,  when  his  passengers  were  once  more  settled 
in  their  seats,  pulled  back  into  the  trail. 

We  changed  horses  at  the  Cannon  Ball  River  an 
hour  or  so  later,  and,  after  dodging  prairie  fires 

94 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

several  times  during  the  ensuing  day  by  driving  in 
behind  buttes  while  the  fire  divided  and  went  by  on 
either  side,  we  at  last  drew  up  on  the  bluffs  below 
Fort  Lincoln. 

Here  we  prepared  for  the  ferry  across  the  Mis- 
souri by  stowing  away  our  charge  under  the  mail 
bags  and  blankets  once  more,  as  Jim  had  managed 
to  impress  on  his  poor,  clouded  brain  the  necessity 
for  concealment  from  his  enemies.  With  the  ferry 
safely  crossed,  our  anxieties  were  about  over,  and 
when  the  houses  of  Bismarck  were  plainly  in  sight 
we  halted.  This  was  as  far  as  Jim  dared  carry  his 
deadhead  passenger. 

We  had  secured  enough  food  to  last  him  for  a  day 
at  the  Cannon  Ball  relay  station.  This  he  carried 
tied  up  in  his  handkerchief.  I  wrote  a  brief  state- 
ment of  his  case  on  a  leaf  torn  from  my  memo- 
randum book  and  put  it  in  his  pocket;  and  as  he  had 
acquaintances  in  the  town,  we  felt  that  he  was  com- 
paratively safe.  We  had  done  what  we  could  for 
him  and  there  was  now  just  time  to  catch  the  night 
express  for  the  East — ^yet  I  should  have  liked  to 
tarry  a  little.  He  looked  lonesome,  poor  devil, 
tramping  behind  us  along  the  trail  in  the  dusty 
twilight. 


CHAPTER  VII 

N  due  course  the  Northern  Pacific  Railway 
landed    me    safely    at    Fargo,    North    Dakota. 

"Owing  to  its  location  near  the  head  of  naviga- 
tion on  the  Red  River  of  the  North,  this  frontier 
town  was  then  the  "jumping-off  point"  for  the 
Canadian  Northwest,  just  as  Bismarck  was  for  our 
own  Northwestern  Territory.  Winnipeg,  then  still 
known  by  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  name  of 
Fort  Garry,  lay  about  seventy-five  miles  beyond  the 
border,  on  the  Red  River,  and  was  the  chief  center 
of  trade,  population,  and  government  for  all  the 
western  half  of  the  Dominion  of  Canada.  It  was 
this  picturesque  outpost  of  the  white  man's  world 
that  I  had  set  my  heart  upon  viewing  before  the  in- 
rush of  settlers  should  destroy  forever  its  old-time 
flavor. 

I  spent  some  days  in  Fargo,  waiting  for  a  steam- 
boat to  take  me  to  Fort  Garry,  and  I  made  the  ac- 
quaintance there  of  the  freight  agent,  who  was  at 
that  time  the  leading  citizen  of  the  town.  There 
was  no  jail,  or  need  of  one,  in  Fargo.  There  was  no 
mayor,  no  policeman,  no  sheriff,  no  judge — only  the 
freight  agent. 

I  asked  him  how  he  accounted  for  the  good  be- 
havior of  the  entire  community.     He  said  it  was 

96 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

because  everyone  in  Fargo  had  such,  a  respect  for 
the  law. 

"Why,  only  last  week,  if  you  had  been  here,  you 
might  have  seen  an  example  of  how  we  administer 
justice,"  he  explained.  "We  believe  in  fairness  and 
in  helpfulness  to  our  neighbor. 

"To  go  back  a  little,  a  young  fellow  came  to  town 
six  months  ago  and  said  he  wanted  to  start  a  shoe 
store,  but  he  hadn't  enough  money  to  finance  it 
alone.  We — that  is,  myself  and  a  few  of  the  most 
influential  citizens — talked  the  matter  over  and  de- 
cided to  help  the  young  man.  The  town  needed 
a  shoe  store;  so  we  raised  a  few  hundred  dollars  to 
add  to  what  he  already  had,  and  told  him  to  go  down 
to  Chicago  and  stock  up. 

"Well,  he  came  back  from  Chicago  with  just  two 
boxes  of  shoes — ladies'  shoes — and  there  were  only 
two  ladies  in  town.  We  asked  him  where  the  rest 
of  his  stock  was,  and  he  said  it  was  coming.  But  it 
didn't  come,  and  finally  he  confessed.  He  had  never 
had  so  much  money  in  his  hands  before,  and  he  got 
excited  and  lost  most  of  his  money  down  there  in 
the  city  playing  the  black  and  the  red. 

"Well,  we — that  is,  myself  and  a  few  of  the  most 
influential  citizens,  had  a  meeting  down  to  the 
freight  oflBce,  and  we  decided  to  give  the  boy  another 
chance.  We  believe  in  fairness  and  being  helpful  to 
a  new  citizen,  so  we  raised  some  more  money  and 
sent  the  young  fellow  back  to  Chicago  for  shoes 
(men's  shoes,  which  were  needed  bad)  to  stock  up 
with.  That  time  he  came  back  with  the  goods.  We 
were  glad  to  see  a  young  fellow  appreciate  fairness  and 

97 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

helpfulness  and  we  said  among  ourselves  we'd  forget 
he  owed  us  for  the  shoes  he  didn't  get  the  first  trip. 

"The  boxes  he  had  brought  from  Chicago  were 
standing  in  the  freight  house,  ready  to  be  hauled 
over  to  his  store.  That  evening  the  train  for  Bis- 
marck was  just  pulling  out  from  the  station,  and  as  I 
looked  out  of  my  office  window  there  I  saw  the  young 
fellow  with  his  grip,  swinging  himself  aboard. 

"I  jumped  out  of  the  door  and  pulled  the  lever 
that  dropped  a  semaphore  down  the  track  a  ways 
and  the  train  pulled  up  with  a  jerk.  I  took  that 
young  fellow  off  the  train  and  marched  him  back 
to  his  pile  of  shoe  boxes.  He  whined  and  cried  while 
I  pried  the  top  off  of  one  of  'em;  and  there  was 
every  kind  of  old  trash  packed  in  that  box,  but  not  a 
single  shoe. 

"I  called  a  meeting  of  a  few  of  the  influential 
citizens  together  at  once,  and  just  as  the  sun  was 
settin'  we  all  took  a  walk  together,  the  young  fellow 
and  the  men  that  had  twice  trusted  him,  a  stranger 
to  'em.  We  went  over  to  the  big  elm  by  the  river, 
and  then  we  all  came  back — all  except  the  young 
fellow.  People  in  this  town  are  law-abiding.  We 
couldn't  see  how  that  young  man  fitted  in." 

Fargo  proved  too  law-abiding  to  be  long  inter- 
esting. The  water  in  the  Red  River,  which,  by  the 
way,  flows  due  north,  was  too  low  for  the  little  stern- 
wheel  steamer  to  come  as  far  up  as  Fargo,  so  eventu- 
ally I  took  a  branch  railroad  up  to  Grand  Forks  and 
there  embarked  in  a  rickety  old  craft  which  the  cap- 
tain hoped  would  hold  together  long  enough  to 
make  the  trip  to  Winnipeg  and  back. 

98 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

With  the  exception  of  Mark  Twain,  this  captain 
was  about  the  last  survival  of  the  old  Mississippi 
pilots  whom  it  was  ever  my  good  fortune  to  meet. 
He  used  to  be  a  pilot  between  New  Orleans  and  St. 
Louis  when  a  Mississippi  steamboat  was  one  of  the 
great  institutions  of  the  United  States;  when  the 
gambling  in  the  cabins  ran  high,  when  thousands  of 
dollars  were  wagered  on  races  between  rival  lines 
and  the  black  deckhands  were  supposed  to  take 
turns  sitting  on  the  safety  valves;  when  the  best 
of  food  and  the  best  of  cooks  made  traveling  a  joy; 
and  when  the  traveler  had  always  before  him  the 
interesting  possibility  of  ending  his  voyage  and  his 
life  in  a  grand  display  of  pyrotechnics  as  the  tinder- 
box  on  which  he  was  a  passenger  disappeared  like  a 
meteor  in  the  night. 

Our  captain  maintained  his  traditions  even  in 
this  dilapidated  old  stern-wheel  steamer.  He  sat 
at  the  head  of  the  table  at  dinner,  and  he  had  brought 
from  the  south  an  old  woolly-headed  cook  who  sur- 
prised the  three  or  four  cabin  passengers  on  a  five 
days'  journey  with  wonderful  desserts  concocted 
in  fantastic  shapes. 

Then,  too,  the  captain  had  with  him  a  villainous- 
looking  first  mate — just  such  a  mate  as  one  reads 
about  in  the  stories  of  old  Mississippi  days.  He  was 
a  little,  wiry  old  fellow  with  a  yellow  face  and  hair 
dyed  jet  black  and  plastered  down  over  his  right 
eye.  I  couldn't  tell  whether  he  was  French,  Spanish, 
Indian,  or  a  mixture  of  all  three,  but  he  was  cer- 
tainly a  close  relative  of  the  Old  Harry,  and  he 
could  (and  did)  bedevil  the  deckhands  in  a  wide 

99 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

assortment  of  languages,  to  which,  in  this  Northern 
land,  he  had  added  the  Scandinavian  tongue. 

There  was,  however,  one  man  whom  he  let  very 
much  alone  after  the  first  day.  This  was  a  young 
giant  who  wore  a  woodsman's  mackinaw — a  hand- 
some fellow  with  hair  that  curled  over  a  fine  fore- 
head and  with  just  a  suspicion  of  a  beard. 

The  little  mate  started  in,  before  we  left  the 
landing,  to  pitch  into  this  big  fellow,  evidently  on  the 
theory  that  if  he  cowed  him  control  of  all  the  others 
would  be  easy.  Two  or  three  times  the  little  squeak- 
ing voice  of  the  mate  cracked  about  the  big,  good- 
humored  boy's  ears  like  a  whip  lash.  He  just  looked 
surprised  and  went  on  with  his  work,  carrying  enor- 
mous piles  of  wood  on  his  shoulder  for  the  boilers. 
Then  all  at  once,  when  the  mate  grew  even  more 
abusive  than  usual,  the  young  fellow  walked  up 
alongside  of  him,  towering  up  over  him  with  his 
load  of  cordwood  poised  on  one  shoulder,  and  simply 
looked  down  at  him  without  a  word. 

The  mate  returned  his  stare  in  dead  silence.  It 
was  a  picture,  to  the  life,  of  a  fox  terrier  looking  up 
at  a  Newfoundland.  Well  the  little  mate  knew  that 
just  one  word  from  him  would  bring  down  a  load  of 
firewood  upon  his  head.  He  addressed  his  further 
remarks  to  men  a  trifle  nearer  his  own  size. 

I  soon  discovered,  on  closer  acquaintance,  that 
the  mate's  language  was  purely  professional  and  his 
relation  to  the  Old  Harry  only,  after  all,  like  the 
rest  of  us — he  had  a  bit  of  the  devil  in  him.  He  saw 
that  the  deckhands  had  plenty  of  good  food  to  eat 
and,  of  course,  he  had  to  get  a  day's  work  out  of 

100 


HE  DIDN'T  LIKE  THE  ROAD-BED 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

each  of  them  or  lose  his  job.  Outside  of  dyeing  his 
hair,  he  was  a  pretty  decent  citizen. 

One  night  about  midnight  the  captain  sent  some 
one  to  my  stateroom  to  wake  me  up.  A  big  prairie 
fire  was  raging  to  the  west  and  north  of  us  and  was 
sweeping  down  toward  the  river.  The  Red  River 
winds  and  twists  at  a  level  from  thirty  to  forty  feet 
below  the  surrounding  plain,  and  its  banks  are  lined 
for  miles  with  cottonwoods  and  underbrush,  much 
of  the  latter  dead  and  as  dry  as  tinder. 

Now  these  dead  trees  flamed  up  like  torches  above 
the  general  conflagration  and  up  on  the  deck  it  was 
almost  as  light  as  day.  Just  ahead  of  us  the  flames 
had  reached  the  river  and  there  we  saw  a  sight 
which  held  us  enthralled.  Elk  and  antelope,  timber 
wolves,  coyotes,  jack  rabbits,  foxes,  and  one  pure- 
white  creature  which  dashed  into  the  shadows  before 
I  could  make  it  out — each  one  oblivious  to  this 
strange  companionship  with  his  deadliest  enemies — ■ 
all  swept  madly  down  headlong  into  the  river. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  the  fifth  day  aboard  the 
little  steamer  we  discovered  lights  ahead. 

"That's  Winnipeg,"  the  captain  informed  me, 
and  in  half  an  hour  we  were  at  the  dock.  About  the 
only  thing  we  could  see  was  a  scow,  anchored  just 
below  us,  on  which  rested  a  little  wood-burning 
locomotive  with  an  enormous  smokestack.  On  the 
locomotive  were  the  initials  C.  P.  R.  It  was  all 
that  existed  at  that  time,  west  of  Ottawa,  of  the 
Canadian  Pacific  Railway. 

That  night,  I  slept  in  a  small  hotel  near  the  river 
bank  and  the  next  morning  I  was  awakened  by  a 

101 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

strange  noise.  It  sounded  like  the  scream  of  some 
great  bird,  but  it  was  too  long  continued  to  be  that. 
Still  only  half  awake,  I  got  out  of  bed  and  went  to 
the  window. 

It  must  be  a  very  dreadful  thing  to  be  the  victim 
of  an  attack  of  aphasia,  to  lose  for  a  time  your  own 
identity.  As  I  looked  out  of  that  window  the  sense 
of  location  had  left  me  absolutely.  All  memory  of 
the  voyage  up  the  river  was  gone,  and  a  feeling  crept 
over  me  not  very  far  removed  from  fright.  From 
the  nineteenth  century  I  had  dropped,  as  from  the 
clouds,  into  the  seventeenth  or  eighteenth. 

To  the  southward  I  saw  the  four  turrets  and  the 
frowning  walls  of  an  ancient  fort.  Across  the  river 
lay  a  row  of  low  thatch-roofed  buildings  and  an  old 
stucco  monastery.  Down  in  the  street  voyageurs 
walked  about  with  bright-colored  woolen  scarfs 
wound  about  their  waists.  Several  Indians  passed 
by.    In  vain  I  sought  a  clew  to  my  whereabouts. 

Then  my  eye  suddenly  caught  a  glimpse  of  that 
little  wood-burning  locomotive  and  my  own  familiar 
world  came  back  with  a  rush.  But  the  little  loco- 
motive could  do  no  more  than  strike  a  small  dis- 
cordant note  in  this  picture  of  bygone  days — the 
days  of  the  old  exploiting  companies  with  their 
strange  charters  entitling  them  to  things  which 
belonged  to  nobody,  or,  at  any  rate,  to  nobody 
strong  enough  to  defend  his  rights. 

Fort  Garry  was  still  one  of  the  great  depots  of 
the  "Honorable  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company." 
The  business  of  that  great  institution  was  going  on 
pretty  nearly  in  the  same  way  that  it  had  been 

102 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

conducted  since  the  day  when  it  took  charge  of  the 
lives  and  hberties  of  every  creature  of  the  North 
which  was  unfortunate  enough  to  bear  fur  on  its 
back.  Winnipeg,  which  is  now  a  large  and  flourishing 
modern  city  with  electricity  and  strikes  and  bandits, 
was  then  a  small  town  or  village  centering  about 
old  Fort  Garry.  As  I  stood  at  the  little  window, 
trying  to  get  myself  adjusted  to  this  strange  old 
world,  I  heard  again  the  wild  screeching  cry  that  had 
awakened  me,  but  it  was  some  time  later  in  the  day 
before  I  discovered  what  produced  it. 

After  breakfast  I  started  to  walk  about  the  town, 
and  I  was  soon  in  a  state  of  mind  much  like  that  of 
Alice  in  Wonderland.  In  front  of  a  store  where  one 
would  naturally  have  expected  to  see  a  few  barrels 
of  potatoes  and  heads  of  cabbage  stood  a  row  of 
moose  heads  with  their  spreading  antlers.  Down 
on  the  river  I  saw  a  battered  flat-bottomed  and 
square-ended  boat  (we  used  to  call  that  kind  of  a 
craft  a  "John  boat"  in  the  West),  and  in  it  were  a 
stove,  two  or  three  reed-bottomed  chairs,  and  a 
respectable  old  red-and-white  cow  that  looked  as 
though  she  ought  to  be  ashore  eating  grass. 

A  fat  old  priest  was  sitting  in  the  stern  of  a  canoe, 
paddling  across  the  river.  The  bow  of  his  ridiculous 
little  cockleshell  was  clear  out  of  water,  and  the 
combination  so  strongly  reminded  me  of  Father 
William  that  I  could  hardly  keep  from  asking  of 
him,  "Do  you  think,  at  your  age,  it  is  right?" 

As  I  continued  down  the  river  bank  I  heard  again 
that  mysterious  screech  which  had  awakened  me  at 
daylight,  only  repeated  now  and  multiplied  a  hun- 

103 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

dredfold.  The  sounds  seemed  to  come  from  a  wood 
that  stretched  along  the  west  banlc  of  the  river. 
These  must  be  pretty  large  birds,  I  thought,  to  make 
such  a  loud  squawking;  but  I  was  prepared  to  see 
almost  anything  except  what  emerged  presently 
from  the  wood — just  a  long  line  of  two- wheeled  bul- 
lock carts,  the  wooden  wheels  of  which,  turning  on 
wooden  axles  without  aid  of  grease,  had  squawked 
and  screeched  and  screamed  for  hundreds  of  miles 
as  they  brought  in  packs  of  skins.  This  was  the 
final  stage  of  a  journey  begun  on  the  backs  of  Indian 
trappers  two  thousand  miles  north  and  continued 
on  dog  sleds,  canoes,  and  bateaux  till  the  final  land 
stage  was  reached. 

Curiously  enough,  in  all  this  runaway  trip  I  felt 
that  I  was  just  having  a  glorious  holiday,  as  carefree 
as  the  grasshopper  in  the  fable.  My  sketchbook, 
with  which  I  started  out,  was  filled  long  ago  and 
"tea  paper,"  ''butcher's  paper" — anything  I  could 
get  at  trading  posts  or  "Company"  stores — was 
pressed  into  service.  There  was  another  point  of 
resemblance  between  myself  and  the  fabled  grass- 
hopper. AVinter  was  fast  approaching  up  in  that 
northern  land  and  by  the  time  I  had  made  a  canoe 
voyage  far  beyond  Fort  Garry  my  clothes  had  be- 
come so  worn  and  were  so  thin  that  I  began  to  think 
it  would  be  advisable  once  more  to  metamorphose 
myself  into  a  Franklin  Square  ant  and  go  to  work. 

For  weeks  I  had  camped  with  the  hardy  voyageurs, 
the  most  cheerful  fellows  I  ever  met,  ever  singing  as 
they  swung  to  their  paddles  and  telling  stories 
around  their  fires  at  night. 

104 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

We  lived  well,  up  there  in  the  woods.  Our  cook 
had  the  Frenchman's  genius  for  his  trade.  He 
would  dig  a  deep  hole  in  the  ground  and  build  a 
fire  over  it,  allowing  the  coals  to  drop  down  until  his 
impromptu  oven  was  very  hot;  then  he  would  rake 
out  the  coals,  put  a  great  earthen  pot  of  beans  in  the 
hole,  and  pile  dirt  and  coals  on  top.  In  the  same  way 
he  baked  bread.  Game,  which  was  plentiful  in  those 
days,  added  a  zest  to  our  table. 

Always  with  a  Frenchman  one  feels  the  touch  of 
art — a  little  flair  in  the  way  he  wears  his  cap  or  ties 
his  woolen  scarf  about  his  waist,  the  manipulation 
of  his  paddle,  and  the  swing  and  rhythm  of  his 
boating  song.  Through  all  the  rough  life,  the  hard- 
ships of  twenty  generations,  this  heritage  from  the 
men  who  left  France  to  conquer  the  forest  and 
found  a  new  kingdom  has  survived. 

Our  little  expedition  in  the  canoes  was  undertaken 
for  the  purpose  of  meeting  a  small  steamboat  which 
was  bringing  pelts  across  a  wide  lake  and  of  trans- 
ferring its  cargo.  On  our  way  back  to  Winnipeg 
we  encountered  many  frosty  mornings  and  I  found 
it  necessary  to  prepare  at  once  for  my  homeward 
journey.  I  was  sorry  to  leave  old  Fort  Garry  where 
I  had  so  suddenly  plunged  from  the  nineteenth  back 
into  the  eighteenth  century  and  beyond.  It  was 
hard  to  leave  the  romance  of  the  voyageur  and  come 
back  to  the  clatter  of  the  Elevated  train.  But  when 
the  Pembina  stage  drove  up  to  the  little  Winnipeg 
Inn  on  a  cold  damp  morning  before  the  sun  was  up, 
I  felt  it  was  time  for  the  grasshopper  to  get  down  to 
a  more  genial  climate. 

105 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

My  fellow-passengers  were  the  wife  of  an  officer 
in  the  Mounted  Police,  her  six-weeks-old  baby,  and 
her  sister.  The  stage  was  well  supplied  with  buffalo 
robes  and  we  managed  to  keep  comfortably  warm. 
A  few  miles  out  from  Winnipeg  a  howling  blizzard 
struck  us  and  our  driver  had  great  difficulty  in  keep- 
ing the  road. 

About  nine  o'clock  we  came  to  the  first  station 
for  a  change  of  horses,  where  one  might  also,  sup- 
posedly, get  breakfast.  We  entered  the  station, 
which  was  a  one-room  log  cabin,  and  there  found  our 
hostess,  a  half-breed  squaw,  standing  just  inside 
the  door,  extending  a  greasy  hand  for  our  half- 
dollars,  advance  payment  for  the  meal.  She  pocketed 
the  money  and  then  set  out  three  disreputable- 
looking  plates  on  a  bare  table,  and  beside  each  a 
tin  spoon.  On  her  stove  stood  an  iron  pot  in  which 
some  kind  of  an  inky  mass  bubbled.  With  a  cracked 
wooden  ladle  the  old  squaw  filled  our  plates  with 
this  dismal  mixture  and  bade  us  be  seated. 

We  were  all  hungry  and  we  pulled  up  our  chairs 
to  the  table.  We  called  for  bread  and  butter.  There 
was  no  bread  and  butter.  There  was  no  coffee. 
"Only  meat,  good  meat — eat  'em."  But  although 
the  ladies  had  doubtless  roughed  it  many  a  time  and 
so  had  I,  we  balked  at  the  contents  of  our  hostess's 
iron  pot.  It  looked  too  much  like  a  devil's  brew 
from  the  River  Styx. 

Out  into  the  blizzard  we  went,  minus  fifty  cents 
and  a  breakfast  apiece,  and  with  fresh  horses  strug- 
gled on,  only  to  lose  the  road  entirely.  All  day  we 
traveled  southward  as  nearly  as  our  driver  could 

106 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

keep  his  direction.  Then  after  darkness  had  closed 
in  and  it  looked  as  though  we  would  have  to  drive 
into  a  clump  of  willows  and  tie  up  for  the  night,  I 
discovered  a  glimmer  of  light  to  our  left.  The  vil- 
lage of  Pembina  it  certainly  must  be,  and  we  made 
for  it  joyfully.  Suddenly,  as  we  approached  closer, 
we  found  ourselves  on  the  bank  of  the  Red  River, 
and  saw  that  the  lights  were  the  lamps  in  the  cabin 
of  a  steamboat  which  was  tied  up  to  the  bank. 
Through  the  windows  on  the  upper  deck  we  could 
see  the  captain  at  the  head  of  the  dinner  table  and 
things  to  eat  everywhere. 

With  no  waste  of  time  the  boat  was  hailed  and  a 
gangplank  was  thrown  out  by  my  friend,  the  old 
Mississippi  mate.  I  knew  him  instantly  by  his 
unique  brand  of  profanity.  Our  grand  old  captain 
welcomed  us  to  his  table.  He  knew  the  two  ladies 
and  remembered  me  and  my  sketchbook.  We  made 
the  remainder  of  the  trip  on  the  steamboat.  She 
lay  all  that  night  where  we  boarded  her.  Next 
morning  the  sun  came  out,  the  snow  melted  away, 
and  in  two  days,  when  we  reached  Grand  Forks,  it 
was  bright  and  warm. 

On  the  way  down  I  saw,  just  at  sunset,  what  looked 
like  a  small  bathhouse  perched  up  on  the  bank. 
Several  men  with  guns  and  dogs  were  gathered  about 
it,  and  one  of  the  men  w^as  signaling  us  to  stop.  We 
pulled  up  alongside  and  threw  out  the  gangplank. 
Then  the  old  mate  and  his  crew  swarmed  ashore 
and  began  dragging  the  "bathhouse"  on  to  the 
gangplank,  some  of  the  men  wading  in  the  icy 
water  alongside  to  keep  the  unwieldy  freight  from 

107 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

toppling  over  into  the  river.  They  had  almost 
reached  the  boat  when  somebody  slipped  on  the 
muddy  bottom  and  over  went  the  huge  crate  into 
the  river.  A  steam  winch  and  all  the  mate's  vocabu- 
lary were  required  to  land  it  safely  on  the  forward 
deck. 

The  owner  of  this  remarkable  piece  of  personal 
baggage  was  a  short,  good-looking  young  English 
sportsman  with  a  blond  beard,  a  pipe,  a  tweed  suit, 
and  an  imperturbable  manner.  When  his  crate 
went  overboard  he  merely  remarked,  "I  say,  upon 
my  word!"  and  went  on  smoking.  The  crate  which 
stood  on  the  deck,  oozing  Red  R,iver  mud  and  water 
at  every  crevice,  contained  the  trophies  of  his  entire 
summer's  campaign:  buffalo  heads,  elks'  antlers, 
antelope  skins,  the  hides  of  timber  wolves,  and  even 
rattlesnake  skins. 

Personally,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  get  the  point 
of  view  of  the  mighty  hunter.  When  you  meet  him, 
he  is  a  simple,  charming,  kindly  person,  and  yet  his 
sole  pleasure  in  life  seems  to  be  to  kill  some  peace- 
ful creature  that  is  enjoying  itself  in  a  way  that 
interferes  v/ith  nobody  in  the  world.  This  young 
Englishman  was  true  to  type,  and  I  found  him  a 
delightful  fellow-passenger.  He  was  very  happy 
because  he  had  killed  so  many  fine  animals  and 
because  he  was  to  join  his  uncle  in  Equatorial 
Africa  the  next  season,  there  to  kill  still  more  and 
bigger  game.  He  brought  out  from  their  leather 
cases  for  my  edification  two  heavy  elephant  guns 
which  he  had  brought  along  for  practice.  He  had 
taken  one  of  them  on  a  buffalo  hunt,  with  the  result 

108 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

that  the  buffalo  was  badly  frightened  but  unhurt, 
while  the  hunter  suffered  a  dislocated  shoulder. 

When  the  steamboat  reached  Grand  Forks,  then 
the  end  of  a  little  branch  line  of  the  Northern 
Pacific  Railway,  we  had  jusL  two  hours  until  the  train 
left.  Captain  Powell,  my  English  friend,  was  in  a 
quandary  about  his  box  of  trophies.  He  had  but 
just  time,  if  he  made  all  connections,  to  catch  his 
steamer  for  Liverpool,  but  he  could  not  bear  to 
abandon  his  buffalo  heads. 

I  had  noticed  on  the  river  bank  a  wooden  box 
nailed  to  a  big  elm  tree  on  which  was  painted  in  large 
letters,  "U.  S.  Express  Co."  (or  maybe  it  was 
"Fargo  Express."  I  have  forgotten).  There  was  a 
small  tent  alongside  the  tree.  In  the  box,  protected 
from  the  weather,  was  a  telegraph  instrument.  I 
took  Captain  Powell  over  to  this  primitive  express 
office  and  we  explained  the  captain's  predicament 
to  the  agent. 

"Easiest  thing  in  the  world.  I'll  telegraph  to 
Chicago  for  a  through  rate  from  here  to  Liverpool. 
Cost  you  something,  of  course.  I  saw  the  box  at 
the  landing.  Answer  '11  be  here  in  plenty  of  time  for 
you  to  catch  your  train.  Meantime  I'll  have  a 
blacksmith  put  bands  of  strap  iron  'round  the 
box.  .  .  .  Come  back  in  about  an  hour  'n'  I'll  give  you 
the  rate." 

The  agent  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Before  the 
train  left  we  had  the  through  rate,  the  price  to  Liver- 
pool being  ninety  dollars  from  Grand  Forks;  (iron 
bands  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  extra),  and  a  ship- 
ping receipt  signed.     The  captain,  standing  bare- 

109 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

headed  before  the  agent,  declared  that  he  took  his 
hat  off  to  him  and  the  company  and  the  whole 
United  States,  for  not  in  the  best-equipped  office  in 
England  could  he  have  had  the  quick,  accurate 
service  he  obtained  at  a  store  box  nailed  to  a  tree 
in  a  year-old  town  in  North  Dakota. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  I  may  write  a  new  fable 
entitled  "The  Industrious  Grasshopper"  and  tell 
how  he  "put  it  all  over"  the  Ant  who  never  hopped 
about  in  the  Gay  Sunlight  and  never  saw  the  World ; 
but  it  would  not  be  quite  fair,  because,  after  all, 
this  particular  Grasshopper  wasn't  really  a  Grass- 
hopper at  all,  but  just  a  wild  young  Ant  escaped 
for  a  summer  season  from  the  grind  and  toil  of  his 
ant  hill  in  Franklin  Square.  I  had  played  hooky 
often  enough  as  a  boy  to  know  what  sort  of  recep- 
tion awaited  me  on  my  return  there,  and  when  I 
saw  Mr.  Parsons's  face,  with  sorrow  and  displeasure 
written  all  over  it,  I  was  not  surprised.  He  informed 
me  that  "the  house"  was  extremely  dissatisfied 
with  my  behavior  and  personally  he  was  very 
grievously  disappointed.  As  he  turned  away  he 
said,  "I  am  going  downstairs  to  make  as  strong  a 
plea  for  you  as  I  can,  but  I  do  not  hold  out  any  hope 
that  your  services  will  be  retained." 

The  moment  he  left  his  little  office  I  lugged  into 
it  the  most  disreputable,  travel-stained  bag  ever  seen 
in  the  neighborhood;  and  while  that  kindly  gentle- 
man was  pleading  my  cause  below  I  plastered  his 
sanctum  from  ceiling  to  floor,  covering  desk,  table, 
chairs,  and  all  with  sketches  of  everything  I  had 

110 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

seen  on  mj^  runaway  trip.  I  was  just  opening 
another  mud-stained  packet  when  Mr.  Parsons,  who 
was  very  nearsighted,  returned.  There  was  a 
sorrowful  expression  on  his  sympathetic  face,  which 
suddenly  changed  to  a  dazed  one.  Then,  as  he  saw 
the  mass  of  material  I  had  brought  back,  his  whole 
countenance  cleared  and  the  enthusiastic,  appre- 
ciative spirit  of  the  man  shone  in  his  face.  We 
planned  pages  and  double  pages  and  more  pages  for 
the  Weekly.  Finally,  Mr.  Parsons  brought  out  from 
Mr.  Alden's  safe  the  manuscripts  of  several  articles 
on  "The  Honourable  Hudson's  Bay  Company," 
which  had  been  laid  aside  years  before,  for  lack  of 
suitable  material  for  illustration.  I  had  the  pic- 
tures for  these,  too.  Thus  my  runaway  assignment, 
to  which  I  had  assigned  myself,  ended  happily  for 
all  concerned;  and,  to  show  how  they  appreciated 
a  good  joke  on  themselves,  Messrs.  Harper  & 
Brothers  sent  me  with  almost  a  free  hand,  the  next 
year,  to  Colorado. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  the  early  'eighties  I  had  the  highly  ornamental 
but  not  very  lucrative  position  of  cartoonist  for 
Li^fe.  Every  week  the  printer  loomed  up  in  front 
of  Messrs.  Mitchell  and  Miller  like  a  profiteering 
landlord  and  took  away  most  of  their  available  cash. 
But  that  first  year  of  the  little  paper's  existence  had 
hardly  ended  before  the  money  began  to  roll  in  and 
my  checks  grew  larger. 

I  had  read  old  Ben  Butler's  advice  to  all  young 
men:  "Go  into  debt,  young  man!"  and  had  fol- 
lowed his  admonition  very  literally.  But  now  my 
financial  affairs  were  mending  and  I  grew  ambitious 
to  become  a  landowner.  I  bought  a  pretty  bit  of 
hillside  with  a  tiny  house  on  it,  for  a  thousand  dol- 
lars, from  Mr.  Roswell  Smith,  president  of  the  Cen- 
tury Company,  and  went  into  debt,  as  Ben  Butler 
advised,  for  half  the  amount,  giving  my  mortgage 
note  for  five  hundred  dollars.  Mr.  Roswell  Smith 
was  the  father-in-law  of  my  friend  George  Inness,  Jr., 
who  now  became,  thanks  to  this  transaction,  my 
near  neighbor  in  Montclair,  New  Jersey. 

On  the  day  my  mortgage  note  fell  due  I  went  to 
the  bank,  drew  out  five  one-hundred-dollar  bills 
and  a  few  small  bills  over  for  interest,  and  called 
on  Mr.  Smith  at  the  Century  offices.    I  handed  him 

112 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

the  money  and  he  had  a  release  of  the  mortgage 
made  out,  leaving  me  full  owner  of  the  property 
without  encumbrance.  Then,  like  the  kindly  and 
fatherly  gentleman  he  was,  he  said  a  few  very 
pleasant  words  about  how  good  it  was  to  see  a  young 
man  careful  of  his  obligations,  etc.,  all  of  which  sent 
me  home  feeling  quite  important  and  "worth 
while."  The  next  morning  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
knock  off  work  and  take  my  ease  for  the  day,  per- 
haps to  go  out  in  the  fields  and  try  a  water-color; 
when,  oh,  joy!  there  at  my  door  stood  young  George 
Inness.  He  had  some  kind  of  a  roll  of  blue  paper 
under  his  arm. 

"Come  on!"  he  said.  "You  don't  want  to  work 
all  the  time.  Let's  take  a  walk  over  the  hills.  First 
we'll  go  down  the  Old  Road.  We'll  stop  at  Mrs. 
Rohlpillar's  little  garden  and  have  a  glass  of  her 
good  beer  and  then  we'll  go  wherever  we   like!" 

Off  we  went  in  the  careless  freedom  of  youth  bent 
on  a  holiday. 

Mrs.  Rohlpillar  had  a  little  place  not  quite  im- 
portant enough  to  call  a  beer  garden;  but  there 
were  three  or  four  tables  out  under  a  wistaria  vine 
and  we  sat  down  there  and  sipped  our  beer.  In 
those  days  we  had  no  idea  that  in  years  to  come 
our  little  diversion  would  be  rated  a  crime  and  an 
honest  hostess  a  criminal. 

Our  consciences  were  clear.  I  was  a  thrifty  man 
who  had  just  paid  an  honest  debt  and  tasted  the 
joy  of  rectitude.  George  was  happy  because  he  had 
that  roll  of  blue  paper  under  his  arm. 

"You  know  how"  I  have  wished  for  a  glass  studio 

113 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

to  pose  cattle  in  in  the  winter  time.  Well,  old  man, 
I'm  going  to  have  one  at  last.  Yesterday  I  went  to 
New  York  and  had  dinner  with  my  father-in-law- 
He's  a  fine  man." 

"Yes,  indeed  he  is,"  I  said. 

"George,"  he  said  to  me,  after  dinner — "Greorge, 
you've  always  wanted  to  build  a  glass  addition  to 
your  studio.  I  remember  you  made  the  plans  for  it 
last  year,  but  you  thought  it  added  a  little  too 
much  to  the  cost  of  the  studio  at  that  time.  You 
thought  it  would  cost  something  like  four  or  five 
hundred  dollars.  Well,  to-day  I  received  five  hundred 
dollars  which  I  did  not  at  all  expect  to  get,  and  I  am 
going  to  hand  it  over  to  you  for  your  glass  studio!" 

"And  Mr.  Smith,"  said  George,  "handed  me 
these  five  bills" — and  George  spread  out  on  the 
table  my  five  hundred-dollar  bills. 

As  I  look  back  through  the  softening  mists  of 
time  this  seems  a  huge  practical  joke  that  the  fates 
played  on  us  that  morning,  and  I  can  see  the  intensely 
ludicrous  side  of  it;  but  at  the  time  it  rather  flat- 
tened Mrs.  Rohlpillar's  beer.  I  tried  my  best  to 
show  deep  interest  in  the  blue  prints  of  the  new 
studio,  but  by  and  by  I  remembered  some  unfinished 
work  at  home  that  must  be  attended  to. 

Several  years  later  it  happened  that  Mr.  Smith 
changed  his  plans  in  regard  to  the  development  of 
his  real-estate  holdings  in  Montclair,  and  my  lots 
were  wanted  to  complete  his  programme.  He 
offered  me  a  very  generous  advance  on  my  original 
investment  and  I  got  back  my  thousand  and  a  con- 
siderable sum  besides. 

114 


(T 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

A  year  later  George  Inness,  Sr.,  came  to  Mont- 
clair  to  live,  and  so  he  may  be  included  among  the 
worth-while  people  I  have  known,  although  I  moved 
away  too  soon  to  know  him  well.  I  remember, 
while  the  paint  was  still  wet,  seeing  several  of  his 
woodland  pictures  which  are  now  among  the  most 
treasured  of  his  productions.  Judging  by  the  care- 
less way  he  left  these  canvases  about,  I  am  sure 
that  he  had  no  idea  of  their  value. 

About  the  oldest  art  in  the  world  is  the  art  of  ^  j 
make-believe.  The  child  begins  it  as  soon  as  he  can 
talk  and  he  never  gets  over  its  fascination.  Every- 
body wishes  to  know  what  goes  on  behind  the  scenes 
at  the  theater,  the  grown-up  land  of  make-believe; 
and,  as  I  happen  to  know  a  good  deal  about  the 
inside  doings  of  a  very  celebrated  playhouse,  it 
would  be  selfish  to  keep  it  to  myself. 

In  the  'seventies,  when  the  old  Union  Square 
Theater  was  in  its  prime,  a  young  man  with  ambi- 
tions to  become  a  playwright  came  to  town  and, 
adding  his  impecuniosities  to  mine,  took  a  couple 
of  rooms  in  a  house  on  East  Twelfth  Street.  Here 
we  lived  for  two  or  three  years.  He  made  an  un- 
certain living  as  a  shorthand  reporter  and  amanu- 
ensis until  the  latter  work  brought  him  into  contact 
with  Mr.  A.  M.  Palmer,  of  the  theatrical  firm  of 
Shook  &  Palmer.  Palmer  took  a  fancy  to  him,  and 
my  chum,  Frank  Harrison,  became  his  private 
secretary.  At  that  time  John  Parselle  was  stage 
manager  at  the  Union  Square  and  played  the  heavy 
old-man   parts.     He   was   particularly   effective   in 

115 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

some  of  the  melodramas  of  that  day,  having  a  won- 
derful deep  voice  that  would  make  the  goose  flesh 
creep  up  and  down  one's  spine  when  he  stole  to  the 
door  of  the  forsaken  house,  with  the  lightning 
playing  through  the  broken  window. 

During  this  same  period  Stoddard  was  playing 
his  eccentric  old  men,  "  Money -Penny "  and  all  the 
rest,  in  his  quaint  and  whimsical  way,  which  was 
partly  not  acting  at  all,  but  just  his  nature.  He  lived 
out  in  Rahway  then,  and  worked  in  his  garden  until 
train  time,  when  he  dropped  his  hoe  and  came  to 
town.  His  first  stopping  place  was  a  little  eating 
house  on  Broadway,  near  Tv/elfth  Street,  where 
Frank  and  I,  fortunately,  had  established  a  limited 
credit.  Parselle  also  took  his  dinners  there,  and 
one  or  two  other  actors  of  the  Union  Square 
company. 

When  Frank  had  made  his  connection  with  the 
company,  even  in  so  humble  a  capacity  as  private 
secretary  to  the  manager,  he  was  inside  the  charmed 
circle;  and  we  felt  extremely  important  as  young- 
sters who  were  privileged  to  exchange  greetings 
with  Mr.  Stoddard  and  Mr.  Parselle.  I  really  believe 
if  Charles  R.  Thorne,  Jr.,  or  Charles  Coghlan  had 
bade  us  a  good  morning  in  those  days  we  should 
have  exploded.  As  has  been  mentioned  before, 
the  south  side  of  Union  Square  from  Fourth  Avenue 
to  Broadway  was  then  called  "The  Rialto."  Every 
would-be  actor,  as  well  as  a  great  many  real  ones  of 
the  second  and  third  rank,  paraded  up  and  down 
that  short  block  each  fair  day  in  the  week.  With 
our   new   sources   of   information   we  learned   how 

116 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

many  tragedies  were  concealed  under  these  masks  of 
"Hello,  Steve!  Glorious  weather,  old  boy!"  or, 
"Just  waiting  for  my  new  play!"  etc. 

It  had  been  glorious  weather  out  there  on  "The 
Rialto"  for  Steve's  friend,  but  a  cold  draught  had 
blown  outward  upon  him  at  the  stage  door  these 
years  back;  and  the  man  who  w^as  waiting  for  his 
new  play  may  be  waiting  still  in  a  more  shadowy 
Rialto.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  play  after  play 
succeeded  under  the  able  management  of  Mr. 
Palmer,  there  were  troubles  inside  the  theater  none 
the  less. 

I  remember,  in  one  play,  Miss  Sara  Jewett  threw 
herself  into  the  emotion  of  her  part  with  such  an 
intensity  that  at  the  end  of  the  third  act  it  was 
almost  impossible  for  her  to  go  on  with  the  fourth. 
On  several  occasions  she  dropped  in  a  dead  faint 
on  her  way  to  her  dressing  room.  She  was  very 
young  then,  hardly  more  than  a  girl,  and  greatly 
beloved  by  the  whole  company.  To  the  public  she 
gave  more  than  they  could  ever  repay,  and  to  that 
generous  use  of  her  great  emotional  powers  was  due 
an  early  nervous  breakdown.  One  of  the  reasons 
why  plays  were  so  successful  at  the  Union  Square 
was  because  big,  sterling  John  Parselle  was  stage 
manager.  And,  curiously  enough,  one  of  his  chief 
sources  of  worry  came  from  as  good  an  actor  as  he 
had  in  his  company. 

In  "A  Celebrated  Case"  Stoddard  took  the  part 
of  an  old  Irish  sergeant  (Denis  O'Rourke).  After 
the  first  ten  minutes  on  the  stage  he  would  forget 
his  brogue,  which  had  been  evident  enough  at  the 

117 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

start.  Then  in  some  other  part  he  would  forget 
where  he  was  to  stand,  and  this  would  keep  the 
others  guessing;  but  through  it  all  Parselle  would 
good-naturedly  weave  his  way;  and  Stoddard  had 
such  a  wonderful  personality  that  with  all  his  little 
faults  he  often  represented  a  large  portion  of  the 
success  of  any  play  he  took  part  in.  No  one  who 
ever  saw  him  as  Newman  Noggs  could  forget  that 
make-up.  I  never  knew  an  actor  who  impressed 
one  so  much  with  what  he  seemed  rather  than  with 
what  he  did. 

One  of  my  friend  Frank's  duties  was  to  round  up 
actors  who  were  careless  about  hours.  A  certain 
member  of  the  cast  in  "The  Banker's  Daughter," 
who  played  the  part  of  a  very  "fresh"  American 
commercial  traveler  visiting  Paris,  was  in  the  habit 
of  "sitting  in"  at  a  game  of  poker  in  the  afternoon, 
and  if  the  cards  were  running  well  he  would  fre- 
quently forget  that  he  was  due  at  the  little  narrow 
lane  on  Fourth  Avenue,  just  below  Fourteenth 
Street,  at  7.30  p.m.  At  about  seven  o'clock  Mr. 
Palmer  would  begin  to  get  nervous,  and  then  it 
would  be,  "Frank,  have  you  seen  Mr.  Blank.'^  .  .  . 
No.?  That  rascal  will  be  the  death  of  me."  And 
Frank  would  have  to  put  on  his  hat  and  make  his 
way  to  sundry  back  rooms — he  soon  came  to  know 
the  channel  (marked  by  various  "lighthouses") — 
and  before  the  last  deadline  of  time  had  passed  he 
would  return,  like  a  faithful  shepherd  dog,  bringing 
in  the  delinquent. 

One  night  the  search  took  longer  than  usual,  and 
Mr.  Blank  kept  the  stage  waiting  for  fully  five 

118 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

minutes.  Mr.  Palmer  was  furious,  but  he  was  a 
man  who  always  treated  his  people  with  the  utmost 
courtesy.  "Mr.  Blank,"  he  said,  as  the  culprit 
stood  before  him — with  a  piece  of  grease  paint  in 
one  hand  and  a  wad  of  cotton  in  the  other — "this 
is  outrageous  and  cannot  continue;  you  must  im- 
mediately mend  your  ways.  If  you  have  no  respect 
for  the  company,  think  of  what  you  owe  to  the 
public!  Man,  why  can't  you  act  like  a  gentleman, 
like  Mr.  Coghlan,  for  instance.^^" 

"Well,  Mr.  Palmer,  I  know  I've  got  a  good  deal 
of  the  rounder  in  me,  but  if  I  was  a  thorough  gentle- 
man and  acted  like  Mr.  Charles  Coghlan,  I  couldn't 
play  this  rotten  part!"  and  Blank  disappeared.  Mr. 
Palmer  fumed  a  little  and  then  turned  to  his  secre- 
tary with  the  remark,  "I  don't  know  what  we 
would  do  without  Blank!" 

But  more  serious  troubles  came  up  at  times. 
Old  theater-goers  will  remember  what  a  sensation 
the  production  of  "The  Danicheffs"  made  when  it 
was  put  on  at  the  Union  Square.  Charles  R.  Thorne 
Jr.  made  the  hit  of  his  life  as  Osip  the  serf,  and 
James  O'Neill  was  a  fine  and  fiery  figure  as  the 
Russian  Count  Vladimir  Danichefl.  But  the  days 
when  this  piece  was  in  preparation  were  charged  with 
explosives  in  Mr.  Palmer's  domain  just  off  "The 
Rialto." 

Thorne  thought  he  was  entitled  to  the  part  of  the 
Count,  which  everyone  looked  on  as  the  leading 
part. 

There  were  fine  clothes  to  be  worn  and  fine  speeches 
to  be  made.    In  fact,  it  had  every  characteristic  of  a 

119 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

conventionally  popular  role.  But  to  Thome  was 
given  the  humiliating  part  of  the  serf,  and  the  more 
he  thought  about  it  the  angrier  he  got. 

Charles  R.  Thorne  Jr.  was  a  large  man,  powerfully 
built,  with  strong  and  not  very  attractive  features 
and  a  broad  manner  of  acting.  I  can  remember 
him  in  many  parts;  always  when  he  came  on  the 
stage  he  took,  by  some  sure  instinct,  exactly  the 
right  position  to  make  the  stage  picture  a  perfect 
composition.  It  is  a  great  gift  and  it  always  made 
him  an  important  figure  in  any  scene.  He  had  no 
particular  grace  of  action,  but  the  fact  that  he  was 
invariably  "in  the  picture"  was  a  grace  in  itself. 

"The  Danicheffs"  rehearsals  went  on,  and  Thorne 
grew  moodier  every  day,  until,  on  the  opening  night, 
he  was  in  a  state  of  smoldering  rage.  If  I  remember 
rightly,  O'Neill  came  on  first  and  had  a  scene  where 
he  could  exhibit  all  his  clever  elocution  and  show 
his  splendid  costume.  This  scene  ended  with  only 
a  glimpse  of  Osip  the  serf.  Then  followed  a  scene 
in  which  slowly,  gloomily,  Thorne,  as  Osip,  advanced 
a  third  of  the  way  across  the  stage.  He  was  angry 
clean  through.  He  felt  and  looked  the  part  of  a 
strong  man  humiliated  by  the  position  as  a  serf. 
He  simply  stood  still  for  a  moment  and  from  that 
moment  he  had  the  audience  with  him. 

So  far  he  hadn't  uttered  a  sound,  but  he  had  made 
the  hit  of  his  life.  He  did  not  realize  it  then,  how- 
ever, nor  for  some  little  time  afterward.  Harrison 
told  me  that  Thome  left  the  theater  after  the  play 
was  over,  still  under  the  impression  that  the  Prince 
had  carried  off  the  honors. 

120 


ji:m  saves  the  mail 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

He  must  have  been  astonished  when  he  saw  the 
papers  the  next  morning,  for  my  recollection  is  that 
James  O'Neill,  fine  actor  though  he  was,  got  scant 
notice;  but  Osip  the  serf  was  the  talk  of  the  town. 

Now  I  must  relate  how  my  chum  became  a  play- 
wright and  produced  a  play.  In  one  of  Harpers' 
publications  appeared  a  story  about  a  wonderful 
Chinese  jewel  called  a  Shay-lee.  (The  story  was 
by  James  Payne.)  Harrison  obtained  permission 
of  Harper  &  Brothers  to  dramatize  it.  He  really 
made  an  excellent  play  out  of  the  material — so  good 
that  John  Parselle  offered  him  $500  and  royalties 
for  it.  But,  no,  Frank  saw  millions  in  it.  He  would 
organize  a  company  and  produce  it  himself. 

With  all  the  faith  and  enthusiasm  of  youth  he 
walked  out  on  "The  Rialto"  and  picked  up  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  companies  ever  assembled  in 
New  York — men  who  had  not  had  an  engagement 
for  years  were  rehearsing  at  last. 

A  small  theater  uptown  was  engaged,  a  drop 
scene  with  plenty  of  pagodas  was  painted,  and  an 
interior  of  a  Chinese  jail.  The  town  was  billed  for 
the  new  production.  The  actors  were  all  paid  a 
week's  salary  at  the  last  rehearsal — for  it  was  a 
cash-in-advance  affair.  When  the  curtain  went  up 
on  the  opening  night  the  young  author  had  just 
fifteen  cents  left  in  his  pocket. 

"It's  strange,"  he  said  to  me  as  the  audience  filed 
in,  "Don't  you  see  that  everybody  in  the  house 
hails  from  Ireland,  or  at  least  their  fathers  before 
them.?" 

Up  went  the  curtain.    There  was  a  surprised  mur- 

121 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

miir.  What  were  those  "pajodias"  doing  on  the 
back  drop? 

The  fact  was  that  "The  Shaughraun,"  by  Dion 
Boucicault,  had  taken  the  town  by  storm  not  very 
long  before  this.  Of  course  the  "Shay -lee"  must  be 
another  Irish  play;  but  here  were  a  dozen  singsong 
Chinamen  and  an  English  soldier,  and  a  lot  of 
pagodas  that  suggested  nothing  stronger  than  tea! 
It  was  a  cruel  hoax,  and  a  howl  went  up  from  the 
audience  that  frightened  the  leading  man  so  badly 
that  he  refused  to  come  out  in  the  second  act,  and 
his  part  had  to  be  read  by  a  scene  painter. 

The  poor  "Shay-lee"  died  a  victim  to  mistaken 
identity;  for  a  perfectly  good  Chinese  melodrama 
could  claim  no  relation  to  Conn  the  Shaughraun. 

At  the  time  when  Abbey  had  a  studio  on  Thir- 
teenth Street,  which  he  shared  with  several  other 
young  artists,  and  my  play-writing  friend  and  I 
lived  around  the  corner  on  Twelfth  Street,  we  used 
often  to  meet  in  Brentano's  little  basement  store  on 
Union  Square.  Mr.  Brentano  was  a  little  man,  very 
much  crippled  by  rheumatism,  so  that  he  could 
scarcely  move;  but  he  was  enterprising  beyond 
any  book  or  periodical  dealer  of  his  day — he  kept 
all  the  leading  foreign  periodicals  and  was  particu- 
larly kind  and  helpful  to  the  young  artists.  He 
allowed  us  to  pore  over  his  foreign  illustrated  papers 
and  magazines  without  any  obligation  to  purchase 
them.  In  fact,  he  invited  us  to  look  them  over; 
and  if  by  chance  one  had  the  price  and  bought  a 
copy  of  Le  Monde  Ulustre  in  order  to  enjoy  a  Vierge 
masterpiece  at  leisure,  he  was  sure  of  thanks  at  the 

122 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

cashier's  desk.  That  httle  crippled  gentleman  was 
remembered  with  gratitude  by  Abbey  and  Reinhart 
and  all  the  rest  of  that  group  for  many  long  years. 

Every  week  when  a  steamer  came  in  with  Le 
Monde  Illiistre  we  used  to  meet  at  Brentano's  to 
see  what  Vierge  had  to  offer.  Many  a  time  I  have 
seen  half  a  dozen  young  fellows  crowded  about 
Abbey,  who  held  the  paper,  as  a  center,  commenting 
enthusiastically  on  the  amazing  effects  of  sunlight, 
where  by  the  white  paper's  dazzle  the  great  Spaniard 
had  made  magic  somethings  out  of  optical  nothings. 
Then  we  would  all  disperse  to  our  dens,  there  to 
dream  dreams  of  being  Daniel  Vierges  ourselves  on 
some  future  day. 

I  have  previously  referred  to  Ben  Butler's  advice 
to  a  young  man :  "  Go  into  debt,  young  man !  Saddle 
yourself  with  a  mortgage  and  pay  it  off!"  and  of 
how  I  followed  it.  My  first  transaction  of  this 
nature  was  with  an  upright  and  honorable  man,  but 
it  isn't  always  that  a  young  home  builder  is  for- 
tunate enough  to  deal  with  a  man  of  Roswell  Smith's 
character.  My  second  experiment  was  with  a  type 
which,  unfortunately,  flourishes  in  every  community 
— one  which  lies  ever  in  wait  for  the  unwary. 

I  had  found  a  vacant  lot  in  a  near-by  suburb. 
It  was  beautifully  situated  and  was  offered  me  at  a 
very  low  price.  It  was  a  part  of  a  large  estate  which 
was  about  to  be  cut  up  into  small  plots.  The  owner, 
finding  that  I  intended  to  build  at  once,  was  pleased 
with  the  prospect,  as  it  would  add  to  the  value  of 
his  remaining  property. 

I  could  see  that  he  was  particularly  delighted  on 

123 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

finding  he  had  an  artist,  innocent  of  the  devious 
ways  of  business,  to  deal  with.  We  had  finally 
agreed  on  the  price — I  was  surprised  that  my  modest 
offer  was  finally  accepted  after  I  had  satisfied  him 
as  to  the  style  of  house  to  be  built  on  the  lot. 

Then  he  assumed  a  fatherly  tone  and  gave  me  a 
great  deal  of  good  advice  as  to  contracts  with  build- 
ers— "a  lot  of  sharks  they  were" — and  finally  warned 
me  ag^ainst  another  set  of  sharks — "lawyers."  I 
recollect  he  always  wore  a  very  shiny  silk  hat,  cal- 
culated to  emphasize  his  position  as  a  man  of  means ; 
and  when  he  talked  he  usually  took  it  off  and  ges- 
tured with  it.  As  this  was  a  time  when  he  wished  to 
be  particularly  impressive,  he  waved  it  about  as  he 
warned  me  to  beware  of  the  real-estate  lawyers  who 
sent  a  ten-dollar-a-week  clerk  up  to  the  Probate 
Court  for  half  an  hour  to  look  up  a  title  and  then 
charged  their  client  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
search. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "you  know  little  of 
business.  I  am  a  man  of  wealth  and  my  warranty 
deed  has  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars  to  back  it 
up.  You  will  not  need  to  waste  a  penny  on  lawyers 
in  this  transaction." 

But,  alas!  how  deceptive  are  appearances!  The 
young  and  inexperienced  artist  with  whom  the  old 
gentleman  was  dealing  had  once  fallen  foul  of  a 
panic — the  great  panic  of  1873 — ^and  had  been  com- 
pelled to  take  a  position  for  several  years  as  book- 
keeper and  assistant  to  the  treasurer  of  one  of  the 
largest  waterwheel  and  milling-machinery  manu- 
factories  in   the  country. 

124 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

For  nearly  three  years  I  sent  out  mortgage  notes 
every  few  days  to  mills  all  over  the  United  States. 
The  firm  which  employed  me  held  mortgages  on 
about  one-third  of  all  the  mills  in  the  Western  states 
and  many  elsewhere,  and  at  that  time  I  knew  the 
laws  relating  to  mortgages  in  every  state  in  the 
Union  and  the  exemption  laws  in  the  Southern  tier 
of  states.  I  was  as  familiar  with  the  laws  of  fore- 
closure, the  flaws  of  titles,  et  cetera,  as  a  clerk  in  any 
real-estate  lawyer's  oflBce  in  the  land. 

But  how  was  a  poor,  innocent  old  land  shark  to 
know  all  that.f^  I  thanked  him  for  his  fatherly  in- 
terest and  proceeded  at  once  to  find  out  who,  in  that 
community,  was  the  best-posted  and  most  respon- 
sible lawyer;  and,  having  found  him,  had  him  begin 
at  once  a  search  of  title.  In  ten  days  we  had  dis- 
covered that  a  blanket  mortgage  for  many  thousand 
dollars  covered  the  entire  tract  in  which  my  lot  was 
situated.  Had  I  built  a  house  upon  it  every  dollar 
I  put  in  it  would  have  been  swept  away. 

My  fatherly  old  friend  came  to  see  me  in  a  hurry. 
He  wore  a  pained  expression  under  his  shiny  silk 
hat.  I  was  allowing  myself  to  be  bamboozled  by  a 
firm  of  "skinflint  lawyers,"  he  told  me.  Why  not 
trust  to  him  who  had  every  interest  in  seeing  me  com- 
fortably housed,  where  my  improvement  would  so 
help  his  remaining  property  .^^  What  was  a  trifling 
blanket  mortgage  on  property  so  valuable.'* 

It  was  really  cruel  to  bring  him  down  from  the 
flowery  land  of  humbug  where  he  had  flourished  so 
long,  but  I  felt  the  time  had  come  to  tell  him  not 
to  trust  too  blindly  to  surface  appearances;    and  I 

125 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

related  to  him  how  fate  had  thrown  me  into  an 
unwilling  knowledge  of  the  mortgage  laws  of  the 
entire  United  States,  including  an  experience  in 
foreclosures  and  flaws  of  titles  in  the  very  state 
in  which  he  and  I  were  attempting  to  do  business 
together.  I  must  say  the  old  fellow  was  a  pretty 
"good  sport,"  for  when  he  knew  he  was  beaten  he 
made  good  his  title  and  helped  me  fix  up  a  very 
decent  bargain  with  my  builder. 

Perhaps  this  old  gentleman  and  his  silk  hat  have 
no  place  in  a  series  of  sketches  purporting  to  be  of 
things  and  people  worth  while,  but  I  have  included 
him  as  a  warning  to  any  homeseeking  young  artists 
who  may  read  this  book. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  the  palmy  days  of  Puck,  that  little  magazine 
was  full  of  vital  energy,  and  talents  of  many 
kinds  met  in  its  pages.  The  saucy  little  figure 
on  the  cover,  clothed  only  in  a  silk  hat  and  armed 
with  a  pencil,  would  have  scojffed  at  any  suggestion 
of  Puck  posing  as  a  "highbrow"  publication.  And 
yet  "Our  Colored  Contemporary,"  as  Life  airily 
called  it,  had  for  its  editor  one  of  the  most  culti- 
vated literary  artists  of  his  day. 

I  have  no  recollection  of  making  H.  C.  Bunner's 
acquaintance.  It  seems  to  me  I  always  knew  him. 
At  any  rate,  we  knew  each  other  on  sight. 

He  had  one  of  those  crystal-clear  minds  which 
take  up  understandingly  one's  imperfectly  expressed 
thoughts.  I  always  felt  with  him  that  he  was  lis- 
tening to  what  I  meant  rather  than  to  what  I  said. 
We  made  a  little  journey  together  once  to  New 
London.  Will  Carey,  a  young  man  of  brilliant  wit, 
junior  editor  of  the  Century,  accompanied  us. 
Though  ostensibly  we  were  going  to  see  a  boat  race 
on  the  Thames,  I  found,  on  our  arrival  in  New 
London,  that  the  real  object  of  our  visit  was  to  see 
as  much  as  possible  of  a  very  delightful  family  by 
the  name  of  Learned. 

127 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

A  great  many  p)eople  will  remember  quaint  verses 
in  the  back  pages  of  the  Century  Magazine  by  Walter 
Learned.  You  felt  in  them  the  impress  of  a  cultured 
and  gently  philosophic  mind.  Walter  was  well 
worth  knowing,  and  on  our  way  up  to  New  London 
I  recollect  that  Carey  and  Bunner  talked  about 
him  a  great  deal. 

When  we  arrived  in  New  London  I  discovered  that 
Walter  was  by  no  means  the  entire  attraction  for 
my  young  companions.  I  verily  believe  the  two 
rascals  had  brought  me  along  to  talk  to  him  while 
they  talked  to  his  charming  sisters. 

It  is  unfortunate  that  a  mistranslation  of  '* Kultur" 
has  spoiled  for  us  the  word  "culture."  There  is  no 
word  that  so  described  the  atmosphere  of  the  Learned 
household.  Imagine — in  the  days  when  "Rah! 
Rah!  Rah!"  was  the  intellectual  cry  of  the  under- 
graduate— imagine  a  family  whose  everyday  songs 
were  the  old  English  ballads  of  the  time  of  Queen 
Anne. 

Of  an  evening,  out  in  the  deepening  twilight,  some 
one  would  start  up  such  an  old  song  as  Abbey 
would  have  delighted  to  illustrate,  and  the  whole 
family  would  join  in  the  chorus.  It  was  the  com- 
monplace of  their  lives,  as  natural  to  them  as  college 
songs  are  to  other  people  of  less  fine  fiber.  Some  of 
Bunner' s  most  beautiful  short  stories  were  inspired 
in  this  atmosphere. 

I  recollect  Bunner's  telling  me  that  the  incidents 
in  "A  Red  Silk  Handkerchief"  were  real  happenings 
and  the  characters  real  people;  and  after  my  visit 
to  New  London  I  was  very  sure  I  knew  the  source  of 

128 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

some  pretty  sentiments  which  took  on  even  greater 
beauty  through  their  shaping  by  his  subtle  art. 

Mr.  John  Harper  has  been  kind  enough  to  loan 
me  a  sketch  of  Bunner's  old  friend,  Will  Carey,  by 
Stanley  Reinhart.  Carey  was  known  and  much 
beloved  in  New  York  during  his  short  life,  and  this 
hitherto  unpublished  picture  will,  I  am  sure,  give 
pleasure  to  many  people. 

Here  is  what  Judge  Henry  E.  Howland  wrote  in 
1904  of  Will  Carey  and  Stanley  Reinhart's  sketch 
of  him:  "It  is  a  charming  reminder  of  one  of  the 
most  delightful  characters  I  ever  came  in  contact 
with — genial,  unselfish,  sunny-temf)ered,  with  a  wit 
of  the  finest  edge  tempered  with  such  kindness  that  it 
never  caused  a  wound;  and  such  a  loyal  friend  that 
one  could  always  be  sure  of  him  in  any  stress  of 
fortune." 

Bunner's  span  of  life  was  also  a  short  one;  but, 
like  Theodore  Roosevelt,  he  lived  as  much  in  one 
year  as  most  people  do  in  two.  In  point  of  accom- 
plishment Bunner  lived  a  full  life.  He  set  a  high 
standard  for  the  short-story  writer.  His  "Short 
Sixes"  and  such  stories  as  "Love  in  Olde  Cloathes" 
are  marvels  of  an  easy  style  founded  on  an  inner 
structure  of  infinite  care. 

A  roster  of  Puck  contributors  in  the  days  just 
referred  to  would  fill  this  page  with  names  worth 
while.  Keppler,  Opper,  Taylor,  Harry  Leon  Wilson, 
W.  J.  Henderson,  Munkittrick,  perfect  versifier  and 
humorist  of  high  degree — these  are  but  a  few  of  the 
bright  minds  that  made  Pvck  a  living  power.  This, 
however,  is  not  a  volume  of  Who^s  Whoy  but  only  a 

129 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

modest  attempt  to  give  a  few  pen  pictures  of  people 
as  I  knew  them. 
/  Puck  gave  an  outlet  for  a  certain  quality  of  satir- 
ical  humor  which  James  L.  Ford  possessed,  or,  may- 
be, was  possessed  by.  At  any  rate,  Ford  couldn't 
help  saying  and  writing  things  which  bit  deep  into 
any  kind  of  humbug  that  came  under  his  observa- 
tion. This  gift  of  "Jim"  Ford's  came  to  its  flower 
a  little  later  on,  in  a  book  called  The  Literary  Shop, 
which,  I  venture  to  say,  is  now  a  classic.  It  was 
freely  predicted  when  this  book  was  published  that 
James  L.  Ford  had  written  his  own  death  warrant 
so  far  as  his  chances  of  ever  having  anything  printed 
in  a  magazine  or  book  in  New  York  were  concerned. 
But  the  publishers  of  New  York,  who  were  unmer- 
cifully pilloried  in  this  book  and  exposed  with  mighty 
little  to  cover  their  naked  faults,  could  not  help 
laughing  at  themselves  and  their  neighbors  who 
appeared  in  such  a  ridiculous  plight  before  the  world. 
Who  can  ever  forget  "The  Poet's  Strike"  in  "The 
Franklin  Square  Prose  and  Verse  Foundry.'^"  And 
"Henry  Rondeau,"  who  broke  it?  Yet  I  have 
noticed  a  Franklin  Square  imprint  on  several  books 
by  James  L.  Ford  since. 

When  was  there  anything  written  about  the  mak- 
ing of  a  magazine  to  equal  his  account  of  the  plot  to 
ruin  William  Sonnet,  foreman,  I  think,  in  the 
"Empire  Prose  and  Verse  Foundry"  of  Hacken- 
sack.'*  Somebody  had  filed  off  the  burr  from  a 
Scotch-dialect  story  intended  for  the  columns  of 
the  Century  Magazine!  No  magazine  of  promin- 
ence, or  editor,  or  publisher  escaped  without  a  sting 

130 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

of  the  lash  in  this  most  amusing  account  of  the  shops 
where  literature  was  turned  out  or  turned  down. 

In  spite  of  James  L.  Ford's  accurate  reports  of  the 
large  business  carried  on  by  Messrs.  Prose  and 
Prosody  in  machine-made  magazine  articles,  Ford 
himself  and  a  score  of  other  young  writers  who  did 
"hand  work"  were  making  themselves  felt  in  the 
'eighties  and  'nineties. 

There  was  young  John  Kendrick  Bangs  writing 
The  House-Boat  on  the  Styx — paragraphing  for  the 
daily  press,  joking  for  the  weeklies,  writing  edi- 
torials— quite  a  busy  young  fellow;  and  there  were 
Henry  Guy  Carleton  and  Guy  Wetmore  Carryl, 
Harry  Leon  Wilson,  George  Ade,  and  Eugene  Field. 

Bangs,  more  than  all  the  others,  kept  closely  in 
touch  with  current  events;  and  as  my  work  as  a 
cartoonist  carried  me  into  similar  fields  we  were 
often  closely  associated.  In  all  political  movements 
Bangs  was  to  be  found  exercising  an  independent 
judgment,  taking  sides  as  conscience  or  reason 
demanded.  Like  Davy  Crockett,  he  always  acted 
on  the  precept  "Be  sure  you're  right — then  go 
ahead ! " 

There  are  many  people,  especially  in  the  pro- 
fessions, who  claim  to  be  indej>endent  in  politics, 
but  who  are  really  neutral — which  means  that  they 
count  for  nothing.  There  is  a  considerable  diver- 
gence between  a  Declaration  of  Indej>endence  and 
a  Declaration  of  Indifference.  Having  once  taken 
sides  in  politics.  Bangs  fought  to  win;  no  weak- 
kneed  measures  appealed  to  him.  He  was  never  a 
compromiser  or  trimmer.     I  was  associated  with 

131 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

him  in  more  than  one  campaign  and  always  felt  a 
sense  of  security  when  I  had  him  to  stand  with  me 
or  to  back  me  up. 

No  chronicle  of  the  worth-while  people  of  the 
past  few  years  would  be  complete  without  a  little 
story  or  two  of  Oliver  Herford.  He  and  I  were 
among  the  early  contributors  of  Life,  and  we  used  to 
get  together  every  now  and  then.  Of  course,  a 
great  many  stories  are  told  of  him  which  he  would 
not  recognize,  but  if  he  ever  reads  this  one  I  am 
sure  the  incident  will  come  back  to  his  mind. 

I  was  waiting  for  a  train  at  the  Grand  Central 
Station,  being  at  that  time  an  unfortunate  com- 
muter, when  I  saw  Oliver  impatiently  pacing  up 
and  down.  He  was  on  his  way  to  the  White  Moun- 
tains and  had  an  hour  to  put  in  until  train  time. 
In  those  days  the  package  department  at  the  station 
was  a  small  affair,  presided  over  by  a  very  crabbed 
old  gentleman  who  had  charged  Oliver  thirty  cents 
for  checking  a  bag,  umbrella,  and  package  a  few 
days  before,  which  Oliver  thought  was  an  imposi- 
tion. He  begged  me  to  keep  him  company  until  the 
White  Mountain  Express  was  ready,  and  we  chatted 
awhile  until  the  gates  opened.  Then  Oliver  gravely 
took  a  check  out  of  his  pocket  and  we  approached 
the  package  stand.  I  saw  the  crabbed  old  gentle- 
man give  Oliver  a  look  which,  had  it  been  a  knife, 
would  have  cut  his  throat,  but  Oliver  handed  him 
the  check  and  very  sweetly  asked  for  his  package. 

The  old  man  produced  a  suitcase.  Attached  to 
it  hung  a  piece  of  heavy  twine  which  extended  back 
behind  the  counter.     Hauling  this  in,  he  brought 

132 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

forth  a  book  firmly  tied  in  a  loop  of  the  twine;  an 
umbrella  came  next,  securely  tied  to  the  book; 
then  a  magazine,  a  second  magazine,  and  a  cane, 
each  with  about  a  yard  of  twine  trailing  after  it. 
And  last  of  all  came  a  quart  bottle  of  a  liquid  to  be 
mentioned  now  only  in  connection  with  a  doctor's 
prescription.  Oliver  gathered  up  all  these  various 
parts  of  a  single  package  and  handed  the  old  gentle- 
man, whose  face  was  now  a  deep  purple,  the  sum  of 
ten  cents. 

It  is  singular  how,  in  spite  of  such  instances  as 
this,  the  delusion  persists  that  authors  and  artists 
have  no  business  instincts.  But  the  humorous 
pranks  that  Oliver  Herford  has  performed  and  the 
wit  which  has  gilded  so  many  of  his  sayings  have 
almost  obscured  the  really  extraordinary  things 
which  he  has  done.  His  caricature  portraits,  with 
their  quaint  verses  attached,  are,  to  my  mind,  of  a 
higher  order  than  anything  ever  before  done  in  that 
vein.  So,  too,  his  book  The  Gentle  Art  of  Pen  and 
Ink,  a  satire  on  the  "society  artist,"  so  deliciously 
funny  that  even  our  society  artist-in-chief  must 
have  laughed  at  the  antics  of  Herford's  "Bertie," 
who  fell  into  the  sea  in  evening  clothes  and  could 
not  be  rescued  until  6  p.m.  In  everything  Oliver 
Herford  draws,  no  matter  how  trifling  the  subject, 
there  lurks  the  intangible  something  which  makes  it 
art. 

In  these  days  we  hear  a  great  deal  about  Green- 
wich Village;  and  not  all  that  we  hear  is  to  the 
credit  of  that  section  of  New  York.  It  seems  a 
great  pity  to  one  who  lived  in  the  real  Greenwich 

133 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Village  years  ago  to  see  an  old  stronghold  of  truest 
Americans  exploited  as  the  home  of  a  bohemianism 
entirely  foreign  to  this  country.  The  Bolsheviki  in 
art,  literature,  and  politics  have  fastened  on  the 
fringe  of  Washington  Square  and  given  it  the  name 
of  Greenwich  Village.  The  real  village  lay  much  to 
the  west  of  the  square,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  remember, 
only  one  real  bohemian  ever  lived  in  it. 

He  was  of  a  type  so  different  from  the  professional 
bohemian  of  the  Washington  Square  neighborhood 
of  to-day  that  I  hesitate  to  give  him  that  designa- 
tion. In  all  that  went  to  make  a  good  citizen,  an 
artist  to  his  fingertips  in  his  chosen  field  of  litera- 
ture, a  clean-cut  gentleman  who  yet  elected  to  live 
his  life  in  his  own  way,  a  true  bohemian  in  his  tastes 
— that  was  Thomas  A.  Janvier.  He  lived  for  many 
years  in  a  little  house  on  Seventh  Avenue.  You 
approached  it  through  a  rickety  gate  and  up  a  little 
brick  walk.  It  had  porches  and  balconies  on  each 
floor,  and  in  the  spring  the  wistaria  blossomed  about 
his  windows.  Janvier  was  a  tall,  good-looking  man 
with  features  that  were  strong  and  yet  of  extraor- 
dinary beauty.  His  little  apartment  resembled  a 
bookstall.  From  floor  to  ceiling  every  room,  with 
the  possible  exception  of  the  kitchen,  was  piled  with 
books,  books,  and  more  books. 

I  remember  seeing  Janvier  standing  on  the  west 
side  of  Union  Square  one  day,  waiting  for  one  of 
those  little  blue  "bobtail"  cars  that  ran  in  eccentric 
fashion  from  somewhere  on  the  East  River  over  to 
the  Christopher  Street  ferry.  As  was  his  usual 
custom,  Janvier  was  dressed  immaculatelY — black 

134 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

cutaway  coat,  striped  trousers,  silk  hat,  etc.  On 
either  side  of  him  were  two  immense  piles  of  old 
books,  bound  mostly  in  pigskin  and  tied  together 
with  ropes.  Mr.  Janvier  told  me  he  had  just  attended 
an  auction  sale  of  old  Spanish  books  on  Fourth 
Avenue,  had  spent  all  his  money,  and  had  nothing 
left  to  hire  a  wagon  to  carry  home  his  plunder. 
There  was  your  true  bohemian — totally  uncon- 
scious of  anything  unconventional  in  carrying  home 
by  hand  a  drayload  of  valuable  books. 

Some  of  my  most  delightful  days  of  that  period 
were  spent  in  his  company  searching  out  picturesque 
and  quaint  material  in  old  Greenwich  and  Paisley 
villages  for  the  pictures  and  text  of  a  book  on  Old 
New  York. 

I  have  always  had  a  soft  spot  in  my  heart  for  men 
who  order  their  lives  after  a  pattern  which  they  have 
devised  for  themselves.  Thomas  A.  Janvier  was  of 
this  rare  sort.  Here  is  the  story  of  another.  At  one 
time  I  occupied  a  studio  on  Lafayette  Place  in  old 
''Colonnade  Row."  That  was  in  the  'eighties. 
Early  one  afternoon  a  visitor  came  to  my  door. 
Daniel  Boone  at  the  age  of  nineteen  must  have 
looked  much  like  the  boy  who  stood  there.  To  be 
sure,  he  lacked  the  traditional  buckskin  jacket,  but 
he  wore  a  coonskin  cap  and  carried  a  long-barreled 
squirrel  rifle.  His  shirt  was  of  blue  flannel  and  his 
tweed  trousers  were  tucked  into  his  boots.  He 
introduced  himself  through  the  name  of  a  mutual 
friend,  and  then  he  began  to  talk. 

The  boy's  voice  was  musical;  he  expressed  him- 
self remarkably  well,  and  one  instantly  felt  the  pres- 

135 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

ence  of  a  mind  entirely  out  of  the  ordinary.  He 
told  me  of  his  journey  on  foot  from  his  home  on  the 
shores  of  Lake  Erie,  through  the  mountains  of 
Pennsylvania,  living,  just  as  old  Daniel  Boone 
lived,  on  the  products  of  the  forest  and  of  the  streams. 
Then  he  drew  a  little  book  from  the  pouch  in  which 
he  carried  his  belongings — a  book  which  he  said  had 
been  company  for  him  on  his  journey.  Most  nat- 
urally and  without  the  shadow  of  a  pose  he  began 
to  read  aloud.  The  book  was  a  volume  of  Keats, 
and  the  story  "Endymion."  We  were  soon  far  away 
from  our  surroundings,  when  suddenly  I  saw  my 
visitor's  hand  tremble.  The  book  fell  to  the  floor 
and  the  boy  toppled  over  in  a  faint.  He  had  walked 
twenty  miles  that  morning  on  a  very  light  break- 
fast and  had  entirely  forgotten  about  luncheon. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  there  was  anything 
eccentric  about  this  young  artist.  When  he  came  to 
live  in  the  city  he  was  as  careful  of  all  its  conven- 
tions as  anyone,  but  he  lived  his  ideals  more  nearly 
than  any  man  I  knew;  he  has  always  lived  them, 
and  now  holds,  through  the  integrity  of  his  work,  a 
very  high  place  among  the  landscape  painters  of 
to-day.  I  hope  Mr.  W.  L.  Lathrop  will  pardon  this 
little  sketch  of  his  picturesque  entrance  to  New 
York,  for  it  has  always  been  a  delight  to  me  to  recall 
the  youthful  enthusiasm  which  made  him  forget 
everything  but  art. 

One  of  the  things  that  is  hardest  to  reconcile 
oneself  to,  as  we  look  on  the  world  about  us,  is  the 
apparent  waste  of  good  lives.  Probably  a  more 
useful  American  citizen  than  Frank  Millet  would 

136 


FORT  GARRY,  MANITOBA,  IN  1878 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

have  been  hard  to  find  while  he  Hved.  And  yet  he 
was  chosen  as  one  to  die  in  the  Titanic  disaster. 
From  his  earhest  boyhood  up  to  the  very  last  he 
was  bubbling  over  with  vitality  and  love  of  life  and 
everything  in  the  world  that  made  life  worth  while 
to  a  man  of  fine  instincts. 

It  was  impossible  to  talk  with  him  without  catching 
some  of  his  enthusiasm.  He  had  what  is  generally 
termed  executive  ability,  but  I  should  call  it  mag- 
netism. When  he  occupied  positions  where  subor- 
dinates were  to  carry  out  his  plans,  as,  for  instance, 
at  the  Chicago  Exposition,  where  he  was  director  of 
decorations,  he  kept  everyone  about  him  in  a  state 
of  enthusiasm.  They  did  prodigious  things  out 
there,  which  they  would  never  have  undertaken 
save  under  the  spell  of  his  personality. 

Frank  Millet  had  also  a  fine  vein  of  humor  in  his 
make-up.  It  stood  him  in  good  stead  one  day  at  the 
Exposition.  "England's  Day"  was  approaching 
and  some  Irish  patriots  declared  they  would  haul 
down  every  English  flag  on  the  Administration 
Building  on  that  day.  They  waited  on  Millet  the 
evening  previous  and  declared  it  their  intention  to 
prevent  the  British  emblem  from  flying  over  the 
principal  buildings.  Frank  Millet  smiled  an  enig- 
matic smile  at  and  with  his  visitors,  and  they  went 
away  feeling  that  at  heart  he  was  with  them. 

The  next  morning  British  flags  flew  from  every 
available  pole,  and  in  the  early  dawTi  groups  of  in- 
censed "patriots"  rushed  the  guards  and  swarmed 
to  the  roofs  of  the  buildings,  determined  to  haul 
down  the  offending  banners.     But  there  were  no 

137 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

ropes  attached  to  any  of  the  flags,  for  Frank  Millet 
had  commandeered  every  steeplejack  on  the  grounds 
the  night  before,  and  they  had  carefully  nailed  the 
flags  to  the  masts.  It  was  such  a  huge  joke  on  the 
"patriots"  that  they  could  not  help  seeing  its 
humorous  side;  and  "England's  Day"  passed  off 
without  any  untoward  incident. 

As  a  rule,  these  impressions  of  people  I  have 
known  have  been  confined  to  men  whose  activities 
made  them  figures  in  the  events  of  a  past  generation, 
but  in  a  little  talk  I  had  with  Mr.  Booth  Tarkington 
a  short  time  ago  he  put  himself  back  into  the  class 
of  the  "old-timers"  in  such  a  delightful  way  that  it 
would  be  shame  to  leave  him  out  of  this  honorable 
company. 

Tarkington  said,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recall  his  words : 
"You  caused  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble  when  I  was 
a  youngster;  it  was  a  close  study  of  your  drawings 
reproduced  in  the  early  numbers  to  Life  that  fired 
me  with  an  ambition  to  become  an  illustrator. 

"I  used  to  copy  them  over  and  over  until  I  thought 
I  knew  the  trick;  then  I  sent  in  a  drawing  of  Life 
which,  to  my  surprise  and  joy,  the  editor  accepted, 
and  for  which  I  received  thirteen  dollars.  I  felt 
that  my  fortune  was  made,  and  I  produced  thirty 
more  drawings — all  of  which  were  rejected.  It  was 
thus  I  was  driven  to  my  present  laborious  occupa- 
tion, which  hasn't  the  joy  of  yours. 

"When  one  draws  all  day  he  has  something  to 
show  for  his  effort,  something  to  look  at;  but  when 
one  has  spent  a  long  day  at  his  desk  with  his  pen, 
v/hen  evening  comes  he  has  before  him  only  a  pile  of 

138 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

sheets  of  paper,  each  sheet  just  like  all  the  others, 
and  all  of  them  covered  with  little  pen  marks  which 
only  mar  the  beauty  of  the  white  paper." 

It  would  be  a  very  interesting  problem  to  specu- 
late upon  what  the  result  would  have  been  had 
Booth  Tarkington  made  the  thirty-first  drawing. 
It  is  possible  that  we  might  have  had  a  very  notable 
artist  to  add  to  our  list,  but  how  many  thousands  of 
people  would  have  missed  the  wonderful  pictures 
painted  with  those  little  homely  pen  marks  on  many 
sheets  of  white  paper! 

When  I  was  a  youngster  one  of  my  schoolmates 
in  Ohio  moved  with  his  family  to  Kansas.  H^  was 
the  captain  and  catcher  in  our  baseball  team  and  we 
missed  him  mightily.  His  family  had  previously  been 
very  well  off,  but  fortune  frowned  upon  his  father, 
and  when  Frank  McLennan  arrived  in  Emporia  he 
was  glad  to  get  a  job  as  printer's  devil.  It  wasn't 
so  many  years  before  he  owned  the  Emporia  Gazette. 

He  sold  it  and  later  it  was  bought  by  William 
Allen  White.  McLennan  bought  the  Topeka  State 
Journal,  which  he  still  owns.  While  on  a  visit  to 
him,  during  a  political  campaign,  I  met  a  few  of  the 
great  Kansans. 

There  was  that  fine  old  j)essimist,  "Ed"  Howe, 
who  wrote  the  story  of  Joe  Errol's  downfall  in  The 
Story  oj  a  Country  Town,  and  who,  as  editor  of  a 
small  Kansas  newspaj)er,  was  more  frequently 
quoted  than  any  editor  in  the  country.  I  have 
called  Howe  a  fine  old  pessimist  because  his  pessi- 
mism has  a  quality  of  delightful  humor  running 
through  it  like  a  thread  of  gold. 

139 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Then  I  had  a  day  with  Eugene  Ware  (Ironquill), 
who  wrote  "The  Washerwoman's  Song."  In  that 
and  many  of  the  Rhymes  of  Ironquill  you  feel  the 
mind  that  sees  much  but  believes  only  a  little.  It 
seems  odd  that  Kansas,  young  and  free,  should  give 
us  two  such  men,  to  whom  the  world  looks  old  and 
a  trifle  wrinkled.  But  then  there  is  William  Allen 
White  (his  neighbors  call  him  "Bill").  He  looks 
out  on  life  and  finds  it  good.  I  went  down  to  Em- 
poria one  day  to  see  him.  The  impression  I  carried 
away  was  of  a  big,  sound,  red  apple;  the  kind  they 
put  on  the  top  of  the  barrel  to  make  you  believe 
they  are  all  like  that;  but  they  are  not,  and  don't 
let  anyone  make  you  believe  Kansas  is  full  of  "Bill" 
WTiites.     They  are  rare  anywhere. 

He  has  done  much  for  Kansas.  It  isn't  always  the 
men  who  build  with  brick  and  mortar  who  make  a 
city  or  a  commonwealth.  A  new  country  has  need 
of  the  "Bill"  WTiites  to  inspire  and  the  "Ironquills" 
and  "Ed"  Howes  to  guide  and  criticize. 

I  was  glad  to  know  them  all,  and  so  to  know 
Kansas  better. 

Along  about  1906  I  was  hammering  away  at  my 
daily  cartoon  in  the  Herald  with  the  feeling,  per- 
haps, of  "the  man  with  a  hoe";  a  daily  task  was 
there  to  be  done.  But  as  I  looked  down  one  row  and 
up  the  next  I  felt  my  potatoes  were  very  small,  and 
there  came  over  me  a  sort  of  despair  of  ever  accom- 
plishing anything  worth  while.  One  day  while  in 
this  mood  I  picked  up  an  evening  paper  and  in  it 
saw  a  letter  from  John  La  Farge.  The  letter  con- 
tained a  complimentary  reference  to  a  cartoon  of 

140 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

mine  in  the  Herald.  It  had  never  occurred  to  me 
that  a  man  like  John  La  Farge  would  even  look  at 
the  drawings  of  a  workaday  cartoonist  in  a  daily 
paper,  and  it  was  almost  like  an  electric  shock  to 
find  appreciation  in  such  a  quarter. 

If  one  of  the  angels  from  a  La  Farge  stained-glass 
window  had  with  the  tips  of  its  wing  brushed  the 
shoulder  of  "the  man  with  a  hoe,"  he  could  not  have 
gone  at  his  task  again  with  more  renewed  strength 
and  courage  than  I  went  at  mine.  For  years  after 
the  thought  often  came  to  me,  "This  is  only 
my  daily  work,  but  I  must  make  it  good  enough  to 
pass  muster  with  John  La  Farge."  I  wrote  him  a 
very  brief  letter  thanking  him  and  expressing  sur- 
prise that  he  had  even  seen  my  everyday  work.  I 
had  never  supposed  it  would  interest  anyone  whose 
art  was  on  a  plane  so  high  as  his.  I  received,  soon 
after,  a  letter  from  him,  which  I  shall  quote  in  part: 

I  do  not  wish  to  allow  you  to  imagine  myself  upon  some 
higher  path,  as  you  imply.  To  me  all  the  paths  are  important; 
and  what  you  do  I  have  tried  to  appreciate  in  words,  to  imply 
that  this  daily  task  of  j^ours  has  called  upon  all  the  powers  of  the 
artist;  the  imaginative  faculty;  the  knowledge  of  fact  and  its 
expression  in  a  special  manner  of  drawing;  a  quality  of  line  and 
composition  and,  of  course,  a  something  unexplained  which  is 
perhaps  still  more  important  and  to  which  I  can  only  allude. 

Yours  sincerely, 

John  La  Fakge. 

From  that  time  on  Mr.  La  Farge  would  every 
now  and  then  write  me  in  regard  to  some  cartoon 
which  interested  him.    A  grotesque  figure  made  out 

141 


'/  I 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

of  a  rake  and  called  "The  Muck  Rake"  brought  a 
page  letter  from  him.  Only  one  who  has  toiled  at  a 
daily  task  with  pen  or  pencil  can  fully  appreciate 
what  a  noble  help  a  word  of  encouragement  is  now 
and  then  from  a  master  of  his  art.  So  without  shame 
I  have  set  down  what  John  La  Farge  wrote  me,  the 
correspondence  surely  being  a  credit  to  him,  as  well 
as  to  me,  on  account  of  its  generous  spirit. 

I  wish  I  had  a  stenographic  report  of  a  conversa- 
tion with  John  La  Farge  back  in  the  prewar  period 
/  when  we  had  a  little  more  time  to  think.  He  referred, 
•  as  he  had  done  in  his  letter,  to  his  belief  that  all 

<^  walks  of  art  were  important.     It  is  impossible  to 

quote  him  exactly,  for  even  in  a  casual  talk  such  as 
this  was,  his  command  of  the  right  word  and  the 
perfectly  constructed  sentence  was  remarkable.  This 
is,  however,  in  substance,  what  he  said: 

*'The  public  are  misled  greatly  by  the  possibili- 
ties of  actual  representation  in  oil  painting;  and  the 
painter  in  the  oil  medium  has  taken  advantage  of 
this  to  arrogate  to  himself  the  title  of  artist.  Yet 
the  painter  in  water-color  exercises  far  more  skill, 
must  be  far  more  resourceful,  and,  in  the  end,  with 
his  simple  means,  often  suggests  more  than  the  oil 
painter  is  able  to  represent.  The  Japanese  are  good 
examples  of  this  art  of  suggestion  with  a  few  simple 
tones  and  lines.  When  one  is  restricted  to  the  line, 
as  in  etching  and  in  pen  drawing,  the  artist's  power 
of  suggestion  is  put  to  a  supreme  test. 

"Many  a  young  man,"  he  continued,  "imagines 
that  holding  a  paint  brush  in  his  hand  makes  him 
an  artist,  but  I  feel  that  a  mastery  of  the  line  which 

142 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

suggests  what  is  left  out  of  the  picture  is  one  of  the 
greatest  of  arts." 

It  will  be  seen  later  on  how  closely  two  great 
masters  in  their  respective  fields,  John  La  Farge 
and  Joseph  Jefferson,  agreed  as  to  what  constituted 
the  highest  form  of  art — "suggestion  rather  than 
representation . ' ' 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  an  inestimable  privi- 
lege to  have  had  these  expressions  direct  from  two 
such  consummate  artists  in  their  different  profes- 
sions; and  I  intend  to  pass  them  on  as  clearly  as  it  is 
possible  to  reflect,  in  an  imperfect  mirror,  the 
thoughts  of  two  great  men. 


CHAPTER  X 

THERE  are  some  men  whom  you  greatly  admire 
and  about  whom  you  can  write  with  a  clear 
judgment  and  feel,  when  you  have  done,  that 
the  picture  is  true  and  does  fair  justice  to  the  sitter. 
But  when  I  think  of  John  A.  Mitchell— "  the  Gen- 
eral," we  all  affectionately  called  him  in  the  old 
days — it  is  with  a  sense  that  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  delineate  even  poorly  his  remarkable  personality. 
Life  had  been  in  existence  only  a  very  short  time 
when  I  climbed  the  long  staircase  at  number  1155 
Broadway  and  found  Mr.  Mitchell  in  a  curious 
mixture  of  studio,  editorial  room,  and  publication 
oflSce. 

Anyone  who  knew  him  in  later  life  would  have 
found  him  about  the  same  then.  He  looked  pretty 
nearly  the  same  age  to  the  end  of  his  life.  He  had 
the  same  smile  with  a  little  nervous  jerk  in  the 
middle  of  it.  He  had  the  same  love  for  capable 
work  and  the  same  kindly  friendship  for  the  capable 
worker  that  characterized  him  to  the  end. 

I  made  cartoons  for  his  paper  for  a  little  more 
than  a  year.  At  first  he  could  afford  to  pay  only  a 
small  price — and  even  so  I  had  often  to  wait  as 
much  as  a  month  for  my  check.  There  was  one  week 
when  Life  came  very  near  breathing  its  last.  There 
was  no  money  to  pay  the  printer — a  strictly  cash 

144 


A    WORLD     WORTH     WHILE 

proposition.  IMr.  Mitchell  has,  I  think,  told  the  story 
of  how  he  and  Andrew  Miller  raised  the  necessary 
twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  dollars;  so  I  will  only  say 
that  within  a  few  months  after  this  crisis  the  paper 
began  to  pay.  Immediately  "the  General"  doubled 
my  check  for  the  cartoon,  and  did  it  with  such  a 
pleased  gesture  that  it  was  worth  much  more  on 
that  account. 

One  day,  when  prosperity  was  becoming  more  and 
more  a  reality  %  I  had  brought  in  a  cartoon,  and 
Mitchell  suggested  that  we  go  to  the  St.  James  on 
Twenty-ninth  Street  for  luncheon.  We  sat  there  for 
quite  a  long  time,  "the  General"  evidently  in  a 
curious  state  of  expectancy,  but  for  what  I  could 
not  tell.  Finally  a  boy  came  in  with  a  message  for 
him  and  we  went  out  to  the  Broadway  entrance. 
A  very  smart  little  rig  was  drawn  up  at  the  curb, 
and  at  the  horses'  heads  stood  a  groom.  Mitchell 
looked  at  me  quizzically  and  said,  "Jump  in,  young 
Rogers!"  (I  was  always  "young  Rogers"  to  him); 
and  in  we  climbed. 

Mitchell  had  always  wanted  a  pair  of  horses  to 
drive  and  this  was  the  realization  of  his  desire.  The 
next  week  my  check  was  a  little  larger,  for  "the 
General"  was  never  one  to  hide  in  a  corner  and  eat 
his  cake  alone. 

One  day  Mitchell  seemed  particularly  thoughtful. 
I  saw  he  was  turning  something  over  in  his  mind. 
This  I  tell  to  show  the  breadth  and  bigness  of  the 
man.    He  said  at  last: 

"Do  you  know  you  and  I  are  engaged  in  a  hazard- 
ous business.'*     We  are  using  a  dangerous  weapon. 

145 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

To  strike  at  fraud  and  wrongdoing,  at  folly  and  all 
that,  is,  of  course,  a  good  and  useful  thing  to  do. 
But  the  weapon,  satire,  is  a  double-edged  sword, 
and  poisoned  at  that.  We  must  do  something  to 
counterbalance  the  tendency  toward  being  cynical, 
or  we  are  lost.  What  natural  sweetness  and  gener- 
osity we  have  will  dry  up.  Life  must  take  its  part 
in  some  good  undertaking;  I  don't  know  exactly 
what,  as  yet,  but  I  am  going  to  think  it  out — some- 
thing to  do  with  children.  You  have  made  pictures 
for  children;  you  must  somehow  use  that  faculty 
for  us." 

From  that  conversation  came  an  institution,  Life*s 
Fresh  Air  Fund.  Several  months  afterward  Mr. 
Mitchell  and  I  went  up  to  Branchville,  Connecticut, 
where  he  had  hired  an  old  mansion  and  its  grounds 
as  a  place  to  send  little  waifs  of  the  streets  for  a 
breath  of  fresh  air.  We  walked  about  the  place  and 
he  said  he  felt  sure  it  would  fill  the  bill;  but  what  to 
call  the  place  he  did  not  know.  I  suggested  Life's 
Farm  and  I  have  always  been  proud  of  the  fact  that 
Lifers  Farm  it  was  from  that  day. 

On  one  occasion  a  rather  worthless  fellow  applied 
to  Mitchell  for  help.  It  was  by  no  means  the  first 
time,  and  some  of  us,  who  knew  the  circumstances, 
protested  against  Mitchell  going  to  his  assistance. 
We  felt  he  was  being  imf>osed  upon  and  insisted 
that  the  man  was  unworthy. 

"I  know  he  is  unworthy,"  IViitchell  said;  "you 
can't  tell  me  anything  against  the  man  that  I 
do  not  know;  but,  after  all,  isn*t  it  the  unworthy 
who  need  our  help  the  most.'^"    It  is  easy  to  pick  a 

146 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

flaw  in  Mitchell's  reasoning  here,  and  yet  to  me  no 
statement  of  our  duty  to  our  fellow-man  has  ever 
shone  out  with  such  a  calm  light  of  pure  charity. 

The  little  waifs  who  have  been  taken  out  into  the 
fields  and  woods  by  the  different  "Fresh  Air"  insti- 
tutions have  always  had  a  strong  place  in  my  affec- 
tions. I  first  came  in  contact  with  them  when  I 
went  to  the  Rivington  Street  Newsboys'  Home  to 
make  sketches  for  the  Daily  Graphic.  It  was  pre- 
sided over  at  that  time  by  Mr.  Calder  and  his  wife, 
two  of  the  biggest-hearted  people  I  ever  met.  The 
poor  little  newsboys  used  to  suffer  a  lot  from  sore 
throats.  Their  shoes  were  often  more  like  sieves 
than  shoes,  so  Mrs.  Calder  got  a  prescription  from 
a  good  doctor  for  just  such  cases.  She  had  a  quan- 
tity of  the  mixture  put  up  and  gave  out  word  to  all 
the  boys  to  bring  bottles  the  next  day  for  a  supply 
of  the  medicine. 

The  next  day  a  row  of  the  little  ragamuffins  lined 
up  before  her.  One  had  brought  a  quart  whisky 
bottle,  another  a  homoeopathic  pill  bottle,  another  a 
shaving  mug,  and  one  a  tin  dinner  pail.  These  little 
waifs  of  the  streets,  boys  and  girls,  in  whom  one 
would  think  every  higher  instinct  must  have  been 
trampled  out  in  the  fierce  fight  to  keep  alive,  have 
really  a  remarkable  sense  of  appreciation.  I  know 
them  well,  for  I  spent  many  a  hot  summer  day  in  the 
tenements  with  doctors  of  the  Health  Department 
or  tramping  about  on  my  own  account.  For  instance, 
the  love  of  nature,  of  the  forest,  and  the  greenwood 
tree  never  dies  in  the  hearts  of  these  youngsters. 
Once  I  saw  a  little  Maying  party  in  the  most  arid 

147 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

region  of  the  slums.  The  May  queen  carried  a 
broomstick  decorated  with  colored  paper  streamers, 
for  a  Maypole.  The  small  boy  who  led  the  pro- 
cession knew  where  there  was  a  tree  and  they  were 
aiming  for  that.  Dodging  among  the  heavy  trucks 
at  the  street  crossings,  the  little  captain  led  his  band 
through  a  maze  of  crooked  streets.  I  followed  them, 
and  at  last  they  reached  the  tree — a  stunted,  broken, 
crooked  wreck  of  a  tree,  and  on  its  gnarled  branches 
perhaps  a  dozen  leaves  to  shade  this  brave  company. 
But  it  was  the  only  living  vestige  of  the  wildwood 
within  their  reach,  and  the  sure  young  instinct  of 
these  little  children  clothed  it  with  all  the  charm  of 
romance. 

On  one  intensely  hot  summer's  day  I  accompanied 
two  young  Health  Department  doctors  in  an  inspec- 
tion of  tenements  in  New  York.  We  took  in  one  of 
the  worst  sections  of  the  city — old  houses  with  many 
rooms  as  dark  as  the  Styx.  One  of  these  young  doc- 
tors and  I  found  ourselves  in  the  home  of  a  poor 
woman  newly  arrived  from  the  other  side.  She  was 
evidently  very  devout,  for  her  walls  were  covered 
with  cheap  prints  of  religious  designs.  The  two  rooms 
she  occupied  had  scarcely  any  ventilation,  and  the 
air  was  stifling.  Her  baby  was  sick.  She  brought 
it  from  a  dark  closet,  and  the  poor,  emaciated  little 
creature  was  pitiful  to  see.  She  held  the  babe  up 
for  the  doctor  to  examine.  I  can  never  forget  seeing 
him  bury  his  fine,  clean  head  in  that  mass  of  rags 
as  he  listened  to  the  faint  heartbeats  of  the  tiny 
infant. 

Not  a  particle  of  disgust  disturbed  the  kindly  ex- 

148 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

pression  of  his  face  as  he  told  the  poor  mother  what 
to  do.  I  made  a  picture  of  this  httle  scene  for  Ilar- 
per's  Weekly  and  in  a  short  time  forgot  all  about  it. 
Nearly  thirty  years  afterward  a  well-known  physi- 
cian rang  me  up  on  the  telephone  and  asked  me  if  I 
remembered  spending  a  day  many  years  ago  in  the 
slums  with  two  young  "medicos."  He  was  one  of 
them,  and  the  other,  he  said,  had  recently  died. 
The  widow  had  always  remembered  the  picture  of 
her  husband,  and  after  his  death  felt  a  great  desire 
to  own  the  original  drawing.  The  drawing  had  been 
I  made  on  the  wood  block;  so  it,  of  coiu-se,  was  de- 
stroyed in  the  process  of  engraving.  But  by  the 
merest  chance  I  found  an  artist's  proof  of  the 
engraving  in  fair  condition.  It  was  a  rather  singular 
fact  that  this  was  the  only  artist's  proof  of  a  Harper's 
Weekly  drawing  which  I  had  preserved,  and  it  was 
a  great  satisfaction  to  have  it  go  where  it  might 
be  a  source  of  comfort. 

One  night,  a  long  time  ago,  I  stood  on  the  side- 
walk looking  at  a  group  of  Salvation  Army  people 
in  the  street.  It  was  a  murky  night,  the  street  w^as 
muddy  and  steaming,  and  the  usual  crowd  had 
gathered  when  the  cymbals  crashed  and  the  old 
cracked  cornet  blared  out  of  tune.  The  flat  booming 
of  a  bass  drum,  which  sadly  needed  stringing  up, 
smote  my  ears  in  a  way  to  arouse  every  particle  of 
prejudice  against  such  a  coarse,  common,  inartistic 
band  of  ignorant  fanatics. 

An  old  woman  stood  near  me,  on  the  sidewalk, 
who  looked  the  worse  for  many  long  years  of  close 
association   with   the   gin   bottle;    the   rest   of   the 

149 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

crowd  were  the  riffraff  and  scourings  of  the  gutter 
and  a  few  poor  creatures  whose  prowHng  place  is  the 
street.  The  scene  of  this  tawdry  Httle  picture  of  the 
Salvation  Army  at  work  was  in  one  of  the  filthiest 
slums  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

I  asked  myself  the  question:  Can  this  be  religion? 
Can  this  brutal  music,  these  ignorant  exhorters,  do 
anything  to  save  this  hopeless,  sodden  mass  of 
humanity?  I  felt  irritated  at  the  futility  of  it  all 
and  aggrieved  at  the  horrible  bass  drum.  Then 
suddenly  I  heard  a  smothered  scream ;  a  poor  street- 
prowling  girl  had  been  smashed  in  the  face  by  some 
brute  in  the  crowd,  A  young  woman  in  the  costume 
of  the  "Army,"  who  had  taken  no  part  in  the  service 
up  to  this  time,  walked  to  the  center  of  the  circle. 
She  was  a  rather  handsome  young  woman,  and  there 
was  something  in  the  way  she  wore  her  uniform 
and  her  poke  bonnet  which  distinguished  her  from 
her  companions. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  she  knelt  down  in 
the  muddy  street,  and  all  the  circling  band  knelt 
likewise.  The  drum  and  cornet  were  silenced.  The 
young  woman  raised  her  hand  in  an  impressive 
gesture  and  held  it  there.  For  a  moment  not  a  sound 
could  be  heard  except  a  sob  from  the  poor  girl  who 
had  been  struck  in  the  face.  Then  began  a  prayer 
for  that  poor  creature  which  was  of  a  beauty  and 
eloquence  such  as  I  have  seldom  heard.  Not  until 
the  last  word  was  uttered  did  the  Salvation  lassie 
lower  her  hand.  With  rare  hypnotic  power  she  had 
held  the  crowd  of  derelicts,  made  them  feel  their 
souls  strugghng,  for  a  moment  at  least,  for  freedom 

150 


WILL  CAREY 

by  C.  S.  Reinhart 


A  FEW  ATTEMPTS  TO  PENETRATE  A  GREAT  MASK 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

from  their  covering  of  misery  and  sin.  I  saw  one 
hard-faced  woman  across  the  circle  throw  her  apron 
up  over  her  face.  Tears  were  trickling  down  the 
cheeks  of  my  old  gin-sodden  neighbor.  But  the  per- 
son who  I  was  most  sure  had  been  deeply  affected 
by  that  prayer  was  myself. 

At  that  time  the  Salvation  Army  was  looked  on 
by  most  people  as  a  band  of  cranks  who  were  a  good 
deal  of  a  nuisance  on  account  of  their  noise,  and  who 
could  not  possibly  do  any  good  to  the  cause  of  real 
religion.  For  several  months  from  that  night  I 
made  a  sympathetic  study  of  the  Salvation  Army, 
attending  the  meetings  in  its  Bleecker  Street  hall 
and  watching  its  activities  on  the  street.  I  used  the 
incident  just  related  as  the  subject  for  what  I  think 
was  one  of  the  first  pictures  published  in  this  country 
which  took  the  Salvation  Army  seriously.  I  found 
that  in  almost  every  band  of  Salvation  Army  work- 
ers there  was  at  least  one  intelligent  and  often  cul- 
tivated woman  in  those  days;  probably  to-day  the 
proportion  is  much  greater.  I  recollect  one  cold 
winter  night  when  the  Bleecker  Street  hall  was 
crowded.  Many  of  the  people  gathered  there,  poor 
souls,  were  there  because  it  was  warm.  That  was 
just  why  the  Salvation  Army  people  wanted  them  to 
be  there,  had  they  but  known  it. 

The  service  was  in  progress;  a  hymn  was  being 
sung,  when  a  man  who  had  staggered  in  at  the  door, 
suddenly,  in  the  unaccustomed  warmth,  became 
uproariously  drunk  and,  springing  from  his  seat, 
started  up  toward  the  platform,  shouting  foul  and 
blasphemous  words  as  he  went.     Halfway  up  the 

151 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

aisle  he  collapsed  and  fell  to  the  floor,  frothing  at 

the  mouth. 

*Tut  him  out!  Put  him  out!"  came  from  all 
parts  of  the  hall;  and  two  or  three  husky  fellows 
sprang  up  and  started  to  drag  him  to  the  door. 
But  the  young  woman  who  was  leading  the  meeting 
bade  them  leave  the  poor  wretch  to  her.  She  knelt 
down  beside  the  ragged,  drink-sodden  creature, 
lifted  up  his  head  from  the  floor,  and  pillowed  it  on 
her  knee.  Then  she  took  her  handkerchief  and 
wiped  the  froth  from  his  lips.  She  had  the  three 
husky  fellows  who  had  started  to  drag  him  out 
carry  him  to  a  bench,  where  they  laid  him  down 
carefully.  If  she  had  asked  them  to  throw  him  out 
of  the  window  they  would  have  obeyed  just  as  cheer- 
fully. Nevertheless,  the  beauty  of  her  act  of  service 
was  not  lost  on  those  rough  characters,  and  there 
wasn't  a  man  in  that  room,  I  imagine,  who  had 
ever  heard  a  sermon  which  hammered  as  much  true 
religion  into  his  soul  as  did  that  little  incident. 

When  the  Great  War  broke  out  the  churches  and 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  the  various  other  organizations 
which  undertook  to  ameliorate  its  horrors  had  to 
learn  how,  but  the  Salvation  Army  simply  went  on 
with  its  accustomed  work,  only  transferring  its 
activities  from  one  sort  of  people  to  another — from 
the  gutters  and  the  slums  to  the  camps  and  the 
trenches. 

There  is  a  consistency  in  the  methods  of  the 
Salvation  Army  which  has  always  won  my  admira- 
tion. The  little  band  never  plays  good  music.  It 
doesn't  wish  to  attract  a  crowd  of  music  lovers. 

152 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Its  work  Is  among  the  lowest  of  the  low.  The  bass 
drum  is  the  biggest  bait  it  has  ever  been  able  to  find 
to  attract  the  kind  of  people  it  wishes  to  reach. 

A  Salvation  Army  band  always  stands  in  the 
gutter.  That  is  partly  so  as  not  to  obstruct  the  side- 
walk, but  mainly,  I  believe,  because  it  is  typical  of 
the  humility  of  Him  whose  work  the  Army  strives 
to  carry  on. 

The  Salvation  Army  never  preaches  to  a  man 
with  an  empty  stomach.  That  is  the  wisest  thing 
it  knows. 

What  is  called  settlement  work  in  the  slums,  the 
tenement  district,  or  among  the  masses — whatever 
you  choose  to  call  the  scene  of  its  activities — is  of 
two  distinct  kinds.  The  first — the  original  settle- 
ment work — was  done  by  people  who  hated  the  slums 
but  loved  the  poor  unfortunates  who  were  com- 
pelled to  live  in  them.  These  fine,  unselfish  people 
left  their  homes  and  went  down  into  the  midst  of 
squalor  which  tortured  their  nostrils  and  offended 
their  eyes.  The  Calders,  away  back  in  the  'seventies 
in  Rivington  Street,  Charles  Loring  Brace,  and  later 
Rose  Hawthorne  Lathrop — these  and  many  others 
gave  the  best  years  of  their  lives  to  better  the  con- 
dition of  the  unfortunate,  the  sick,  and  the  thriftless. 

But  their  example,  unfortunately,  stimulated  the 
imagination  of  people  of  another  type,  those  whose 
great  desire  in  life  is  not  to  help,  but  to  change.  The 
rebuilder  never  appeals  to  the  lazy  idealist  as 
does  the  radical  reformer.  Rebuilding  is  too  much 
like  work.  The  radical  is  happy  only  when  he  is 
tearing  something  down — something  which  may  be 

153 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

imperfect,  but  which  has  stood  the  test  of  years. 
It  is  very  much  to  be  feared  that  a  number  of  what 
might  be  called,  not  inappropriately,  "unsettle- 
ment  houses"  have  been  established  where  they 
will  do  the  most  harm. 

The  radical  element  which  has  taken  up  this 
mischievous  work  is  largely  made  up  of  people  who 
are  not  quite  normal.  They  rather  like  the  slums; 
yet  they  don't  care  a  fig  for  the  people  who  live  in 
them.  They  are  enamored  of  a  host  of  crude  ideas 
of  government  which  can  be  most  successfully  propa- 
gated among  the  densely  ignorant.  There  is  an 
enormous  difference  between  a  fine,  clean  man  or 
woman  who  hates  filth  and  squalor,  and  yet  endures 
both  for  the  sake  of  a  loving  service,  and  the  neurotic 
who  hates  conventional  order  and  decency  and 
goes  among  the  poor  and  unfortunate  to  sow  discord 
and  unrest. 

One  never  hears  of  the  Salvation  Army  trying  to 
start  a  new  form  of  government  in  the  United  States; 
yet  it  has  worked  among  the  poorest  and  most 
ignorant  element  of  the  people  for  forty  years  and 
has  done  more  to  improve  the  condition  of  the  poor 
than  all  New  York's  radical  reformers  put  together. 
Let  us,  who  have  too  frequently  passed  by  on  the 
other  side,  speak  in  deep  humility  of  Rose  Haw- 
thorne Lathrop,  who  devotes  her  life  to  the  care  of 
the  cancerous  poor,  a  service  which  in  self-sacrifice 
and  courage  deserves  to  rank  with  that  of  Father 
Damien  on  the  island  of  Molokai. 

Helping  the  young  in  their  struggle  upward  often 
carries  its  own  joys  and  rewards,  but  to  hold  the 

154 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

withered  hands  of  the  hopeless,  to  minister  to  the 
dying  and  to  the  needs  of  those  who  cannot  die — this 
is  to  become  of  the  saints  themselves. 

Long  before  I  ever  saw  New  York  I  came  in  con- 
tact with  some  of  the  work  done  by  Mr.  Brace  and 
his  organization  for  the  welfare  of  the  city's  waifs. 
To  my  home  town  in  Ohio  he  sent  a  boy  with  close- 
cropped,  bristly  head  and  hangdog  air.  What  his 
history  in  New  York  had  been  could  be  read  in  his 
sullen  eyes  and  browbeaten  manner.  Kicks  and 
cuffs  and  cruel  blows  were  about  all  he  had  ever 
known.  Cal  was  the  only  name  he  brought  with  him; 
that  and  his  memories  were  all  he  had  to  bring! 

Cal  was  taken  in  by  two  brothers,  hackmen,  rough- 
and-ready  citizens,  none  too  gentle  in  their  manners. 
Cal  used  to  duck  his  head  whenever  his  new  bosses 
spoke  to  him,  expecting  a  blow.  It  took  him  a  long 
time  to  get  over  that. 

When  a  boy  accosted  him  it  was  different.  Then 
his  ugly  little  jaw  shot  forward  and  down  over  his 
beady  eyes  came  his  shaggy  eyebrows.  Cal  was  no 
coward;  if  the  odds  were  at  all  even  he  was  always 
ready  for  a  fight.  When  he  found  at  last  that  he 
wasn't  to  be  beaten  without  cause,  his  devotion  to 
his  employers  became  a  pathetic  sight.  Anyone  but 
Cal  would  have  considered  them  the  hardest  of  task- 
masters. They  drove  Cal  as  hard  as  they  drove 
their  horses.  Early  and  late  the  little  fellow  was  on 
duty,  but  the  boy  loved  them  with  a  deep  devotion. 
No  stray  dog  rescued  from  the  street  could  have 
been  more  loyal  to  his  new  master  than  Cal  to  the 
two  rough  hackmen. 

155 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Cal  had  been  in  our  town  two  or  three  years 
before  I  ever  saw  him  smile.  Gradually  his  features 
improved;  even  his  hair  became  smoother  and  less 
bristly;  and  he  finally  grew  up  into  a  decent,  orderly 
citizen,  honest  and  straight  and  well  thought  of  by 
everyone.  That  is  just  one  example  of  the  work 
done  by  Mr.  Brace  in  rescuing  boys  from  intolerable 
surroundings  and  placing  them  where  they  had  at 
least  a  fighting  chance  to  grow  up  to  be  decent 
men. 

It  is  a  great  mistake,  however,  to  imagine  that  a 
boy  cannot  grow  up  a  good  citizen  right  down  in 
the  tenement  district  of  New  York.  I  watched  a 
group  of  boys  one  Saturday  afternoon  out  in  a 
wooded  tract  near  the  Grassy  Sprain  Brook  in  West- 
chester County.  They  were  Boy  Scouts  out  on  a  hike 
and  had  walked  all  the  way  from  the  northern 
terminus  of  the  Subway,  some  nine  miles,  to  the 
place  where  I  observed  them. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  and  the  ground  was  thick 
with  dry  leaves.  A  spark  would  have  started  a  rag- 
ing fire  in  a  moment.  The  little  band  halted  under 
some  tall  trees,  gathered  dry  sticks,  and  prepared 
to  build  a  fire.  One  boy  hunted  up  an  old  tin  can 
and  filled  it  at  the  brook.  He  kicked  away  the  leaves 
in  a  circle  ten  or  fifteen  feet  in  diameter  and  wetted 
the  ground  thoroughly  at  its  edge,  going  many  times 
to  the  brook  for  water.  Then  another  boy  whittled 
a  bit  of  pine  wood  into  a  kindling  stick  in  good 
woodcraftsman  style.  A  fire  was  quickly  made  and 
a  coffee  pot  suspended  over  it.  Everything  was  done 
in  an  orderly  manner  and   as  effectively   as  Dan 

156 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Beard  himself  or  any  other  old  camper  could  have 
done  it. 

1  joined  the  group  and  directed  them  to  where 
there  was  an  excellent  spring  not  far  away.  The 
little  fellows  soon  told  me  all  about  themselves.  Two 
of  them  were  Jewish  boys  from  Hester  Street;  an- 
other, named  Tony,  was  an  Italian;  Slovak  blood 
was  evident  in  others.  Only  one  or  two  of  these 
boys  were  of  native  American  parentage,  and  all 
came  from  a  part  of  the  city  where  the  surroundings 
are  of  the  worst.  It  was  good  to  see  what  the  Boy 
Scout  organization  had  done  to  bring  to  life  the 
love  of  nature,  the  latent  decency,  and  the  regard  for 
the  rights  of  others  which  are  almost  smothered  in  the 
fierce  struggle  for  existence  in  tenement-house  life. 

When  they  left  the  woods  the  little  fireman  of  the 
band  carefully  drowned  out  the  last  embers  of  their 
camp  fire.  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  what 
the  radical  reformers  of  the  Rand  School  tyjje  teach 
young  East-Siders  that  is  as  valuable  as  the  simple 
maxims  of  the  Boy  Scouts. 

Every  now  and  then,  after  periods  of  stagnation, 
when  it  seems  impossible  that  old  conditions  can 
ever  be  mended  or  done  away  with,  along  comes  a 
man  with  an  idea;  and  if  he  combines  with  it  a 
strong  executive  personality  the  world  moves.  This 
combination  never  was  stronger  than  in  the  late 
Col.  George  E.  Waring.  I  remember  one  morning, 
when  I  was  at  work  in  my  studio,  a  sharp  knock 
took  me  to  the  door.  A  tall  gentleman  stood  there, 
faultlessly  dressed,  straight  as  an  arrow,  his  small 
mustache  waxed. 

157 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

"I  am  Colonel  Waring,"  he  said,  as  I  asked  him 
in.  "I  have  come  to  thank  you  for  certain  pictures 
you  have  made  in  Harper's  Weekly  of  street  and 
market  improvements  I  am  trying  to  put  through." 

My  experiences  in  studying  the  life  of  the  East 
Side  had  convinced  me  that  certain  projects  of 
Colonel  Waring's,  reported  in  the  daily  papers,  were 
on  the  right  lines,  and  I  had  gone  down  to  the 
places  indicated  and  tried,  in  pictures,  to  visualize 
his  ideas  as  though  already  in  existence. 

This  little  graceful  act  of  Colonel  Waring's  in 
coming  to  my  place  to  express  his  thanks  contains 
the  secret  of  his  success  in  carrying  out  his  campaign 
against  King  Garbage  and  King  Dirt,  who  had 
reigned  for  three  hundred  years  on  Manhattan 
Island.  His  idea  in  life  was  to  give  credit  to  everyone 
who  was  helping  him.  Before  his  day,  not  a  soul 
had  ever  said  a  good  word  for  the  street  scavenger. 
He  was  a  pariah  to  his  fellow  citizens.  In  a  single 
day,  the  day  on  which  for  the  first  time  in  the  his- 
tory of  New  York  the  street  cleaners  paraded  up 
Fifth  Avenue  in  pure- white  uniforms,  the  "pariah" 
became  a  self-respecting  man. 

I  well  remember  the  howl  of  laughter  that  went 
up  when  Colonel  Waring  proposed  the  white-canvas 
uniform  for  the  street  cleaner.  The  New  York  Sun 
found  it  funnier  than  "The  Stuffed  Prophet"  or  any 
of  its  other  standard  jokes.  When  the  parade  was 
proposed  the  Sun  suggested  that  Colonel  Waring, 
having  made  spectacles  of  the  men  in  their  "White 
Wings"  uniforms,  ought  to  wear  one  himself. 
"Good  idea,'"  said  the  Colonel,  and  when  the  "White 

158 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Wings  "  marched  up  Fifth  Avenue  the  colonel  headed 
the  procession,  a  splendid  figure  on  horseback,  clad 
in  the  pure-white  uniform  of  a  street  cleaner.  Not 
until  the  returning  troops  from  Europe's  battle- 
fields marched  up  the  historic  avenue  in  khaki 
has  there  been  a  parade  which  made  such  an  im- 
pression as  that  first  procession  of  the  street  cleaners. 
The  Sun  came  out  next  morning  with  apologies  for 
its  past  lack  of  understanding  of  Colonel  Waring's 
great  idea  of  creating  self-respect  among  his  work- 
ers, and  from  that  day  forth  its  influence  was  no 
longer  a  hindrance,  but  a  help,  to  the  colonel  in  his 
undertakings. 

After  his  visit  to  my  studio  I  became  very  well 
acquainted  with  Colonel  Waring  and  talked  with 
him  many  times  about  his  ambition  to  clean  up 
Havana.  That  was  the  desire  of  his  life.  To  end  the 
reign  of  yellow  fever  in  Havana  and  so  protect  our  own 
Southern  cities  was  the  ideal  on  which  he  had  set 
his  heart,  and  to  that  desire  he  devoted  the  last 
years  of  his  life  and  in  the  end  gave  up  life  itself,  for 
yellow  fever,  which  he  was  one  of  the  great  factors 
in  destroying,  took  him  as  one  of  its  last  victims. 

I  know  no  man  to  whom  Theodore  Roosevelt*s 
words,  "Let  us  pay  with  our  bodies  for  our  souls' 
desire,"  would  apply  more  appropriately  than  to 
Colonel  Waring. 

The  colonel  was  a  great  smoker.  I  have  watched 
him  smoke  one  long  black  cigar  after  another,  and 
one  day  he  talked  on  the  subject.  But  first  let  me 
say  that  he  was  then  about  sixty  years  of  age,  in 
perfect  health,  straight,  and  vigorous. 

159 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

"When  I  was  a  youngster,  aged  about  twelve 
years,"  he  said,  "my  father  caught  me  with  one  of 
his  cigars  in  my  mouth.  I  had  just  lit  it  and  had 
taken  two  or  three  puffs.  My  father  asked  me  if 
it  tasted  good.  I  was  a  good  deal  frightened,  but 
managed  to  say  that  it  did. 

"*A11  right,'  he  said,  'then  smoke  it  to  the  end,' 
thinking,  of  course,  it  would  sicken  me.  I  smoked 
until  only  the  butt  was  left. 

"'Well,'  said  my  father,  'what  have  you  got  to 
say  now?'  I  felt  pretty  dizzy,  but  I  managed  to 
brave  it  out,  and  replied,  'I'd  like  another!'  Of 
course  it  made  me  sick,  but  I  began  smoking  regu- 
larly soon  afterward  and  have  smoked  ever  since." 

This  story,  I  am  afraid,  will  give  no  aid  or  com- 
fort to  the  theory  that  early  smoking  stunts  a 
boy's  growth,  but  it  is  true,  and  just  as  the  colonel 
told  it. 

When  Thomas  Nast  invented  a  symbol  to  repre- 
sent a  party  or  a  principle  it  was  generally  so  appro- 
priate that  it  could  never  be  improved  upon.  To 
him  we  owe  the  elephant  as  the  symbol  representing 
the  Republican  party;  and  the  tiger  symbolizing 
Tammany  Hall  is  a  characterization  which  has 
stood  the  test  of  time. 

The  "Tiger"  to  my  certain  knowledge,  has  been 
killed  a  number  of  times  since  I  first  made  cartoons 
in  Harper's  Weekly.  Nast  killed  it  the  first  time,  and 
it  was  extremely  dead  for  several  years;  but,  being 
of  the  cat  tribe,  it  had  a  number  of  lives  yet  to  be 
lost  before  it  should  finally  give  up  the  ghost.     I 

160 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

remember  being  in  at  the  death  of  Tammany  several 
times,  giving  what  little  aid  I  could  in  the  way  of 
cartoons  to  the  powerful  forces  which  were  arrayed 
against  Mr.  Croker  and  later  against  Mr.  Murphy. 

The  trouble  with  the  killing  of  Tammany  lies  in 
the  fact  that  Tammany  represents  a  vital  element 
which  exists  in  every  large  city.  There  must  be 
some  organization  to  take  care  of  the  poor  and  ignor- 
ant who  are  unable  to  manage  their  own  affairs 
successfully.  Tammany  is  the  organization  in  New 
York  which  performs  this  necessary  oflBce.  Not 
being  an  altruistic  body,  it  requires  payment  for 
its  service.  All  the  poor  and  ignorant  beneficiaries 
of  Tammany  have  to  offer  is  their  votes;  but  this  is 
no  mean  compensation,  for  it  spells  power.  The 
mayoralty,  the  comptrollership,  the  courts,  the 
police,  and  every  branch  of  municipal  government 
is  in  the  hands  of  Tammany  a  good  deal  more  than 
half  the  time. 

Unfortunately,  the  opponents  of  Tammany,  who 
could  really  outvote  that  organization  a  great  deal 
oftener  than  they  do,  have  no  deep  roots  extending 
down  into  the  lower  strata  of  the  community. 
When  Tammany  becomes  too  outrageous  in  its 
administration  of  public  afiPairs  some  association  of 
citizens  arises  and  fights  the  "Tiger"  through  one 
political  campaign.  If  they  win,  that  ends  their 
interest  in  municipal  politics  until  another  crisis 
arises.  But  Tammany  is  at  work  all  the  time. 
The  next  day  after  it  has  lost  an  election  it  is  already 
rebuilding  from  the  bottom  what  has  just  tumbled 
about  its  ears.    In  this  one  characteristic  Tammany 

161 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

could  be  well  represented  by  a  picture  of  a  beaver — 
always  working  under  the  surface,  eternally  mending 
its  dams  when  the  floods  have  swept  them  away. 

There  will  never  be  recorded  the  final  demise  of 
Tammany  until  a  society  formed  on  the  same  lines, 
but  altruistic  in  its  motives  and  honest  in  its  admin- 
istration, takes  Tammany's  place.  It  can  hardly 
be  called  cynical  to  doubt  if  such  a  society  could 
exist  for  long,  but  the  next  group  of  civic  reformers 
who  become  imbued  with  an  ambition  to  oust 
Tammany  might  try  it  to  advantage. 

While  the  old  Tammany  methods  bred  a  tribe  of 
oflSceholders  who  had  a  tender  regard  for  their  own 
pockets,  it  also  was  responsible,  through  its  very 
intimacy  with  all  grades  of  citizens  down  to  the 
lowest,  for  a  number  of  excellent  thief  catchers  in 
the  past.  Life  on  the  streets  of  New  York  was 
certainly  safe  under  Byrnes,  Murray,  Devery,  and 
McLaughlin,  largely  because  those  officers  were 
close  to  the  people  and  knew  where  to  locate  pretty 
nearly  every  criminal  in  town. 

The  Tammany  of  to-day  seems  to  have  lost  some 
of  its  skill  in  this  line  of  endeavor;  perhaps  the  town 
has  outgrown  that  intimate  acquaintance  with  itself 
which  made  it  possible  for  a  police  officer  simply  to 
order  a  certain  type  of  thief  to  keep  away  from  the 
financial  center  of  the  town  with  the  assurance  of 
being  obeyed.  In  those  days  it  was  absolutely  safe 
to  walk  the  streets  even  in  the  slums  at  any  reason- 
able hour.  My  work  as  an  illustrator  frequently 
took  me  into  the  worst  quarters  of  the  town  at 
night,  but  I  never  was  seriously  molested.    Now  on 

162 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Fifth  Avenue  or  Broadway  in  broad  daylight  a 
citizen  is  more  likely  to  fall  a  victim  to  gun  play  or 
robbery  than  he  was  then  in  the  "gas  house  district" 
at  midnight.  Some  of  those  Tammany-trained  thief 
catchers  came  a  little  high  to  the  community,  but 
perhaps,  after  all,  they  were  worth  the  money. 

New  York  was  in  many  ways  a  much  more  com- 
fortable place  in  those  days  than  it  is  now.  We 
hadn't  nearly  so  many  theaters  then,  to  be  sure,  and 
we  had  no  "movies,"  but  you  could  see  John  Drew 
and  Jimmy  Lewis  and  Mrs.  Gilbert  and  Ada  Rehan 
all  at  once  for  a  dollar  and  a  half.  Or  you  could  go 
around  the  corner  of  Twenty-fourth  Street  to  the 
little  Madison  Square  Theater  and  see  Tom  Whiffen, 
Agnes  Booth,  Couldock,  and  Annie  Russell  for  the 
same  price. 

I  have  told  some  of  the  doings  behind  the  scenes 
in  the  old  Union  Square  Theater.  In  making  the 
pictures  for  a  little  illustrated  souvenir  of  the  play 
"Esmeralda,"  for  the  Madison  Square  Theater  1 
had  a  good  opportunity  to  see  how  a  part  is  buik 
up  by  a  clever  company  who  work  harmoniously 
together. 

Miss  Annie  Russell  was  then  just  a  slip  of  a  gii-l 
and  she  came  to  the  Madison  Square  Company,  I 
am  pretty  sure,  without  any  theatrical  experience 
whatever.  I  saw  her  performance  for  a  number  of 
nights,  also  rehearsals  betweentimes.  It  was  sur- 
prising, indeed,  to  see  how  a  part  could  be  enriched 
without  changing  a  word.  Little  subtle  intonations, 
an  almost  imperceptible  emphasis,  a  little  hesita- 
tion, or  what  appeared  to  be  an  accidental  move- 

163 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

ment — all  these  made  an  enormous  difference  be- 
tween the  first  performance  and  that  of  a  week  or 
two  later. 

It  was  a  wonderful  school  of  acting  which  Miss 
Russell  fell  into;  and  that  extraordinary  actress, 
Agnes  Booth,  recognizing  her  exceptional  aptitude, 
put  all  her  own  great  talents  and  experience  at  the 
service  of  "the  child,"  as  I  often  heard  her  call  the 
younger  actress. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  at  rehearsals  to  see  the 
company  grouped  about  Miss  Russell  and  the  actor 
who  played  the  part  of  her  father.  (Couldock 
played  the  part  during  a  portion  of  the  run,  but  was 
not  in  the  cast  just  at  that  time.)  They  would  go 
through  the  principal  scenes  over  and  over  again, 
and  it  was  easily  to  be  seen  that  the  whole  company 
was  charmed  by  the  young  actress  who  had  so  much 
to  learn  and  was  learning  it  so  rapidly.  The  play, 
which  really  was  very  insignificant,  ran  for  many 
months. 

It  is  dangerous  to  boast  too  much  of  "the  good 
old  times"  when  everything  was  better  than  it  is 
now;  but  in  the  march  of  progress  and  economy  in 
the  production  of  magazines  and  books,  one  beau- 
tiful art,  which  flourished  in  France  and  America 
above  all  places  in  the  world,  has  been  trampled 
underfoot  and  is  scarcely  practiced  at  all  to-day. 
The  invention  and  perfection  of  mechanical  repro- 
duction of  drawings  by  the  half-tone  process  of 
engraving  made  it  a  practical  impossibility  for 
publishers  to  continue  the  use  of  wood  engravings. 

While  no  half-tone  engraving  has  ever  equaled  the 

164 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

best  wood  engraving,  the  average  half  tone  was  far 
superior  to  the  average  work  on  the  block.  The 
cost  of  a  good,  serviceable  half  tone  was  so  much 
less  than  an  engraving  of  equal  merit  that  no  pub- 
lisher could  afford  to  go  on  with  the  old  methods. 
It  was  thus  that  a  wonderful  art  which  had  in 
America  attained  a  perfection  rivaled  only  by  the 
French  was  killed  almost  overnight. 

As  for  the  engravers,  it  was  as  though  a  black 
frost  had  cast  its  blight  over  a  fair  land  in  the  very 
midst  of  harvest  time.  I  knew  personally  a  great 
many  of  these  men,  great  artists  of  reproduction, 
sensitive  as  musicians,  many  of  them  men  of  educa- 
tion and  culture.  It  was,  indeed,  a  cruel  fate  which 
drove  them  from  their  beautiful  art  which  had  taken 
them  years  of  infinite  pains  to  perfect. 

W.  J.  Linton,  an  Englishman  by  birth,  was,  I 
think,  the  first  great  engraver  in  America.  He  had 
a  peculiar  "singing"  line,  somewhat  resembling  the 
line  of  the  great  French  engraver  Pannemacker,  but 
with  just  a  little  more  freedom  if  less  mechanical 
perfection.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  name  his  suc- 
cessors in  any  chronological  order,  but  among  the 
early  followers  of  Linton  to  attain  a  great  place  in  the 
art  was  John  S.  Davis.  Davis  used  to  enter  into  the 
very  spirit  of  the  illustrator  whose  drawings  he  inter- 
preted on  the  block.  When  he  engraved  your  draw- 
ing you  felt  much  the  same  satisfaction  that  Mark 
Twain  felt  when  he  saw  his  characters  in  Pudd'nhead 
Wilson  walking  on  the  stage.  You  felt  he  had  lost 
nothing,  perhaps  had  added  a  great  deal. 

Smithwick  was  also  one  of  the  engravers  whose 

165 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

work  added  charm  to  the  drawing  it  reproduced. 
His  associate  for  many  years,  French,  was  another 
engraver  whose  work  had  a  distinct  flavor  of  its 
own.  Smithwick  was  particularly  strong  in  the 
reproduction  of  drawings  on  a  large  block,  in  which 
he  succeeded  in  preserving  a  perfect  scale  of  light 
which  illuminated  the  whole  engraving.  I  knew  Mr. 
Smithwick  intimately  for  many  years.  He  was  a 
tall,  broad-shouldered,  good-looking  Irishman  of  an 
extremely  fine  type — the  most  sensitive,  high- 
strung  character  I  ever  met.  A  careless  word  of 
criticism  of  his  work  would  drive  him  to  despair  or 
anger,  depending  on  his  mood  at  the  time,  and  an- 
other more  just  or  careful  word  would  instantly 
restore  his  balance.  In  all  his  work  he  was  one  of 
the  most  conscientious  of  engravers.  One  had  only 
to  approach  him  with  a  little  tact,  giving  him  always 
to  understand  that  one  had  absolute  confidence  in 
him,  to  work  with  him  in  perfect  harmony. 

Tinkey  was  another  engraver  who  reproduced  a 
drawing  in  a  sweet  and  silky  line  and  rich  texture. 
A  little  later  on  came  Juengling,  an  extraordinary 
'^  '  and  artistic  engraver  who  got  out  of  the  wood  block 

certain  qualities  of  rich  color  (black  and  white  has 
its  effect  of  color)  never  before  dreamed  of  as  pos- 
sible. All  during  the  great  period  of  wood  engraving 
Kingsley  and  Cole  practiced  their  splendid  art  and 
with  Wolff  survived  the  cataclysm  that  swept  away 
so  many  of  their  comrades. 

The  reproduction  of  pen  drawings  by  mechanical 
means  —  direct   process,    or   photoengraving  —  was 
brought  to  a  great  state  of  perfection  about  twenty- 
'  166 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

five  or  thirty  years  ago  by  Gjgorge  Wright,  assisted 
greatly  by  Benjamin  Day.  As  Joseph  Pennell  very 
justly  said  of  mechanical  reproductions  of  the  pen 
drawings  of  Daniel  Vierge,  they  give  a  better  idea 
of  the  original  work  of  the  artist  than  the  most 
skillful  engraver  could  have  done.  An  "interpre- 
tation" of  a  line  drawing  would  be  somewhat  of  an 
absurdity. 

Yet  while  the  half-tone  plate  is  a  thing  of  mechan- 
ical beauty  in  itself,  it  inevitably  flattens  values. 
Over  a  drawing  of  extreme  delicacy  or  of  elusive 
quality  it  runs  with  the  crushing  effect  of  a  steam 
roller.  A  rough,  crude  original  fares  better;  its 
hard  edges  are  softened.  But  a  wood  engraving  at 
its  best  follows  the  mood  and  the  method  of  the 
artist.  The  sensitive  art  of  the  engraver  joins 
hands  with  the  art  of  the  draftsman.  I  wish  that 
it  were  possible  to  give  an  adequate  idea  of  the 
great  debt  all  of  us  who  drew  pictures  for  publica- 
tion in  the  days  when  wood  engraving  was  at  its 
best  owed  to  the  skill  of  those  artists  of  the  graver. 


CHAPTER  XI 

T  the  Columbian  Exposition  in  Chicago,  Mr. 
John  Foord,  a  representative  of  the  state  of 
New  York  at  the  Exposition,  invited  me  one 
day  to  hmch  with  Thomas  B.  Reed  and  himself. 
I  had  made  a  good  many  cartoons  in  which  Mr. 
Reed  figured,  but  had  never  met  him.  We  had  a 
very  pleasant  luncheon  part}'-,  and  after  it  was  over 
Mr.  Reed  and  I  walked  down  the  steps  together. 

During  the  luncheon  he  had  never  intimated  in 
the  slightest  way  that  he  had  ever  seen  a  picture 
of  mine  or  had  ever  heard  of  me  in  his  life;  but 
just  as  we  parted  he  looked  at  me  with  those  half- 
closed  eyes  of  his  and  said,  in  the  long  Yankee 
drawl  habitual  to  him,  "Mr.  Rogers,  when  next 
you  draw  a  caricature  in  which  I  appear,  I  wish 
you  would  send  me  a  copy  of  it;  I  should  like  to  see 
v/hat  your  ideal  of  manly  beauty  is!" 

I  afterward  met  Mr.  Reed  a  great  latiny  times. 
Once  when  Congress  had  just  assembled  I  was  look- 
ing about  for  pictures  on  Capitol  Hill;  I  called  on 
the  Speaker  in  his  private  office  and  made  an  attempt 
— in  fact  a  number  of  them — to  put  the  "tsar"  on 
paper. 

No  scintillating  personality  was  ever  so  camou- 
flaged by  nature  as  was  that  of  Thomas  B.  Reed. 

168 


A  ^WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

The  inside  of  that  remarkable  head  and  the  outside 
of  it  bore  no  resemblance  one  to  the  other,  excej)! 
that  a  glimpse  of  the  real  man  occasionally  reached 
one  in  the  flash  or  twinkle  of  his  eyes. 

Perhaps  it  was  through  reliance  upon  this  great 
mask  that  he  took  little  pains  in  his  manner  to  con- 
ceal his  opinions  of  the  people  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact.  A  number  of  members  of  Congress 
came  in  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  Speaker  while 
I  was  with  him.  To  many  he  was  frigidly  polite;  to 
a  few  icy;  and  to  still  fewer  he  was  cordial  and 
expansive.  He  had  no  time  for  the  oratorical  or 
for  those  who  were  swelled  up  with  a  sense  of  their 
own  importance;  and  I  think  he  enjoyed  setting 
down  a  ruthless  heel  on  a  palavering,  favor-currying 
soul. 

But  a  modest  man,  one  who  made  no  attempt  o 
impress  him,  was  his  especial  delight.  To  such  a  one 
he  gave  a  warm  welcome.  My  most  distinct  recollec- 
tion of  any  of  the  members  of  the  House  who  came  to 
see  him  that  day  is  of  Gen.  Joe  Wheeler.  Physically 
a  small  man  as  he  stood  alongside  of  the  Speaker, 
his  manner  w^as  so  simple  and  unassuming  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  imagine  him  as  one  of  the 
most  dashing  cavalrymen  of  the  Civil  War. 

He  seemed  more  like  a  quiet  country  gentleman 
who  had  never  taken  part  in  any  of  the  turmoil  of 
public  affairs.  To  him  Tom  Reed  paid  all  the  respect 
due  to  a  great  national  character.  All  the  austerity 
of  the  Speaker  melted  away  at  sight  of  the  little 
Southerner,   and  I  had,   for  a  moment  or  two,   a 

glimpse  behind  the  mask. 

169 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

An  artist  has  sometimes  a  little  advantage  over 
a  reporter  in  his  contact  with  public  men.  A  man 
like  Reed,  for  instance,  is  cautious  in  what  he  says 
to  a  newspaper  man  unless  he  knows  him  intimately ; 
but  he  will  often  express  himself  very  frankly  to  a 
man  who  is  sitting  there  making  a  sketch  of  him. 
After  the  lapse  of  years,  now  that  Thomas  B.  Reed 
is  a  figure  in  history,  it  may  be  permissible  to  print 
a  little  story  of  his  criticism  of  a  portrait  which  John 
Sargent  painted  of  him. 

In  the  anteroom  of  the  Speaker's  ofiice  hangs  this 
portrait  of  Mr." Reed.  It  certainly  is  not  one  of  Sar- 
gent's best.  I  have  looked  at  Mr.  Reed's  face  many 
times.  To  me  it  did  not  in  any  way  resemble  a 
yellow  pumpkin,  but  that  was  what  Sargent's  por- 
trait always  suggested,  and  Mr.  Reed  detested  it. 
On  that  particular  day  I  was  trying  to  get  a  sketch 
of  Mr.  Reed,  and  I  tried  over  and  over  without  much 
success.  His  face  was  a  mask  out  of  which  the 
man  showed  scarcely  at  all.  My  struggles  evidently 
amused  him. 

"You  seem  to  be  having  diflSculties,"  he  chuckled. 

"I  am,"  I  replied. 

"You  are  not  the  only  one,"  he  said. 

Then  he  got  clean  away  from  the  subject  and 
began  a  long  account  of  all  the  things  his  enemies 
had  said  against  him;  of  the  accusations  they  had 
made,  the  names  they  had  called  him,  and  in  his  slow, 
drawling  voice  he  strung  this  out  for  over  half  an 
hour.  It  was  all  interesting  stuff,  well  worth  listen- 
ing to.  I  wish  I  could  remember  it  well  enough  to 
set  it  down  here.    Nevertheless,  I  wondered  why  he 

170 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

was  repeating  all  these  slanders  (and  occasional 
truths)  against  himself,  when  suddenly  he  wound 
up,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  as  follows: 

"But  no  one,  in  Congress  or  out,  disgruntled 
Republican  or  partisan  Democrat — no,  not  even  my 
most  bitter  enemy — has  ever  intimated  that  I  looked 
like  the  picture  John  Sargent  painted  of  me!" 

By  all  the  laws  of  contrast  Theodore  Roosevelt 
should  follow  Thomas  B.  Reed  in  these  pages.  No 
two  men  in  public  life  were  so  totally  different.  One 
with  his  dry,  cynical  wit,  the  other  with  the  boy  in 
him  ever  alive  just  under  the  skin — but  everyone 
knows  all  this. 

Once  during  his  term  as  Vice-President  I  visited 
Mr.  Roosevelt  at  Oyster  Bay.  The  family  had  not 
accompanied  him  to  Washington  that  winter,  and 
he  had  come  up  to  his  Long  Island  home  for  a  little 
outing.  It  happened,  when  he  served  as  police  com- 
missioner in  New  York  City,  that  I  made  some  car- 
toons in  Harper's  Weekly  which  fell  in  line  precisely 
with  what  he  was  trying  to  do.  He  had  no  use  for 
a  group  of  theoretical  reformers  who  balked  at  his 
practical  methods  for  the  accomplishment  of  the 
very  reforms  they  were  continually  talking  about. 

This  group  went  by  the  name,  collectively,  of  the 
"Goo-Goos."  It  was  a  good  name  for  a  man  in  my 
line  of  business  to  have  a  little  fun  with,  and  I  made 
some  pictures  of  the  innocent  little  "Goo-Goos," 
which  I  am  afraid  they  failed  to  appreciate.  But 
Mr.  Roosevelt  had  saved  them  all,  and  he  brought 
them  out  and  commented  on  them.  I  have  men- 
tioned these  cartoons  here  because  later  on  they 

171 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

come  into  the  story.  While  we  were  talking,  the 
younger  Roosevelt  boys  were  romping  about  the 
room.  Quentin  was  a  little  chap  and  I  remember  I 
said  something  about  its  being  easy  to  guess  Mr. 
Roosevelt's  choice  in  the  Scott  novels.  The  adven- 
tures of  Quentin  Durward  in  northern  France  could 
not  fail  in  their  appeal  to  the  daring  spirit  of  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt. 

As  I  look  back  now  to  that  evening  on  Sagamore 
Hill,  I  can  see  how  the  name  of  Quentin  Durward 
stirred  the  imagination  of  Mr.  Roosevelt.  His 
memory  was  extraordinary,  as  many  who  knew  him 
will  testify;  and  he  knew  the  story,  both  the  adven- 
turous and  the  political  sides  of  it,  down  to  the  last 
detail.  The  romantic  origin  of  Quentin  Roosevelt's 
name  must  ever  be  associated  with  that  brave  lad's 
death. 

Over  the  forests  and  plains  of  northern  France-— 
where  Walter  Scott  in  fancy  led  gallant  Quentin 
Durward — young  Quentin  Roosevelt  circled  like  an 
eagle,  and  to  him  fell  adventures  as  daring,  yet  far 
more  wonderful.  Perhaps  the  valiant  soul  of  young 
Quentin  owed  something  to  the  idealism  of  his  name, 
and  the  spark  of  fire  that  the  old  romancer  struck 
blazed  out  again,  gloriously,  in  his  brief  career. 

At  the  beginning  of  Mr.  Roosevelt's  public  life, 
as  I  have  said,  I  found  myself  in  the  ranks  fighting 
the  same  foes;  and  it  was  my  privilege  in  the  last 
great  battle  of  his  life,  the  battle  for  a  place  in  the 
ranks  of  the  civilized  nations  who  were  fighting  our 
battles,  again  to  follow  his  banner. 

There  was,  however,  a  time  when  I  could  not 

172 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

follow  him.  A  third  term  as  President  of  the  United 
States  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  dangerous 
for  the  occupant  of  the  office  and  for  the  country 
as  well.  A  man  who  has  held  that  exalted  office  for 
eight  years,  with  the  prospect  of  four  more  years  of 
power,  might  easily  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  indispensable,  and  the  people  might  easily  fall 
into  a  slumbrous  state  and  forget  their  part  in  a 
government  which  is  of  and  by  and  for  them. 

During  the  campaigns  in  which  Theodore  Roose- 
velt ran  for  a  third  term  I  fought  on  the  other  side; 
but  when  the  Great  War  came  on,  it  was  with  joy 
that  I  found  myself  once  more  in  harmony  with  his 
purposes.  In  a  series  of  cartoons  in  the  New  York 
Herald  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  supporting  him  in 
his  efforts  to  arouse  the  country  to  a  sense  of  its 
duty  to  the  Allies  in  their  desperate  need. 

In  recognition  of  the  help  I  had  given  to  him  he 
paid  me  the  honor  of  a  call  at  the  Herald  office.  In  his 
generous  heart  remained  no  thought  of  old  antago- 
nisms. The  first  thing  he  spoke  of  was  our  troubles 
in  the  days  when  he  was  a  police  commissioner,  with 
the  "Goo-Goos." 

"And  do  you  realize  that  in  your  cartoons  attack- 
ing the  pacifists  you  are  fighting  the  lineal  descend- 
ants of  those  selfsame  slackers?"  he  asked.  "The 
'Goo-Goos'  wanted  certain  reforms,  but  were  un- 
willing to  take  the  only  practical  means  available  to 
bring  them  about.  The  pacifists  say  they  have  a 
'passion  for  peace,'  but  they  refuse  to  fight  for  it." 

Theodore  Roosevelt  had  another  engagement  at 
the  Herald  Building  that  day.  The  blind  news  vendor 

173 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

who  sells  papers  just  outside  the  door  had  confided 
to  Mr.  Nat  Jennings,  an  old  and  tried  friend  of 
Colonel  Roosevelt's  who  always  covered  Oyster  Bay 
for  the  Herald,  that  the  ambition  of  his  life  was  to 
shake  the  hand  of  Theodore  Roosevelt.  Jennings 
had  only  to  ask  the  colonel  in  order  to  obtain  a 
hearty  consent  to  gratify  the  blind  man's  desire. 
I  witnessed  the  meeting,  and  it  was  a  fine  man-to- 
man affair,  no  mere  formal  handshake,  but  a  charm- 
ing, friendly  talk  which  must  have  sent  a  penetrating 
ray  of  real  sunshine  into  a  darkened  life.  It  was  in 
little  acts  of  this  kind  that  Roosevelt  made  friends 
even  among  those  who  disagreed  with  him — the 
human  touch  which  put  life  into  all  his  contacts 
with  men. 

Not  so  very  many  months  before  Colonel  Roose- 
velt's death  I  sent  him  a  book  of  my  cartoons  which 
had  been  selected  from  those  published  in  the 
Herald  during  the  war;  and  on  the  flyleaf  I  wrote  a 
little  inscription  which  ran  something  like  this: 
"To  Theodore  Roosevelt,  whose  words,  'Let  us  pay 
with  our  bodies  for  our  souls'  desire,'  furnished  the 
spark  which  fired  the  heart  of  the  Nation."  A  few 
days  afterward  I  received  from  him  the  following 
letter : 

METROPOLITAN 
432  FouETH  Avenue,  New  York 

Office  of  October  25, 1917. 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 

My  DEAR  Mr.  Rogers: 

If  I  were  allowed  to  choose  my  own  epitaph,  and  if  I  felt  that 
I  deserved  what  you  said,  I  should  ask  to  have  what  you  have 

174 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

inscribed  in  the  volume  you  sent  me,  used  as  such  epitaph. 
Believe  me,  my  dear  fellow,  I  am  very  proud  of  it.  As  for  the 
pictures  themselves,  they  have  been  from  the  time  you  started 
them,  among  the  not  too  many  things  which  have  kept  up  my 
pride  in  my  country.  At  a  time  when  almost  every  cartoonist 
or  writer  was  nervously  endeavoring  to  seem  to  attack  brutality 
without  hurting  the  feelings  of  the  brute,  and  was  therefore  de- 
nouncing war  with  a  vagueness  which  made  the  denunciation 
apply  as  much  to  Belgium  as  Germany,  you  served  the  cause  of 
decency  by  striking  fearlessly  home  at  the  offender.  It  was  a 
great  and  manly  service,  and  all  Americans  owe  you  a  debt  of 
gratitude. 

Faithfully  yours. 


Theodore  Roosevelt. 


Mr.  W.  a.  Rogers, 

New  York  Herald^ 
New  York. 


A  tremendous  effort  has  been  made  from  time  to 
time  to  discredit  Theodore  Roosevelt  because  he  put 
through  the  Panama  Canal  in  what  they  call  a  high- 
handed way.  But  nobody  will  deny  now  that  an 
interocean  canal  was  bound  to  be  built.  The  world's 
commerce  wasn't  going  to  halt  at  a  little  strip  of 
land  the  breadth  of  one's  finger  on  the  map. 

If  we  hadn't  built  it,  and  built  it  then,  it  is  only 
a  fair  question  to  ask  who  should  we  have  liked  to 
see  undertake  the  task  in  our  place?  Theodore 
Roosevelt,  when  he  stuck  his  spade  into  the  earth 
of  the  Isthmus,  had  a  wider  world  vision  than  any 
American  of  that  day.  He  knew  it  was  then  or 
never  as  a  wholly  American  enterprise,  and  if  he 
heaved  a  little  mud  and  a  few  rocks  over  the  moun- 

175 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

tains  into  Bogota  in  the  operation,  that  was  unfortu- 
nate but  necessary. 

It  does  not  make  a  particle  of  difference  whether 
one  was  always  able  to  follow  Mr.  Roosevelt  with 
approval  in  his  many-sided  career  or  not;  admira- 
tion for  that  great  life  as  a  whole  has  been  so  glori- 
ously earned  that  each  one  of  us  must  needs  pay  our 
little  tribute  to  his  memory.  Fortunately,  he  has 
left  us  such  intimate  glimpses  of  his  inner  life,  his 
thinking  has  been  so  open  for  all  to  see,  whether 
about  kings  or  flapjacks,  that,  although  numbered 
with  the  great  dead,  he  yet  seems  to  live.  Roosevelt 
may  be  said  to  have  worn,  not  his  heart,  but  his 
faults,  on  his  sleeve.  His  personal  prejudices  were 
all  public;  what  vanities  he  had,  what  injustices  he 
practiced,  what  overriding  of  a  strict  interpretation 
of  the  law,  what  quarrels  he  indulged  in — all  these 
facts  and  many  more  were  worn  where  all  men  could 
see  them  just  as  plainly  and  prominently  as  his 
great  qualities  of  courage  and  generosity  and  patri- 
otism and  farseeing  statesmanship.  Where  another 
man  is  ashamed  of  and  tries  to  hide  his  shortcomings, 
Roosevelt  may  be  said  almost  to  have  paraded 
them,  not  consciously,  but  because  he  was  a  natural 
man  of  an  almost  primitive  type.  Good  and  bad 
he  was,  but  never  indifferent.  He  constantly  bat- 
tled for  what  he  thought  was  the  right,  and  picked 
up  whatever  weapon  came  to  his  hand  to  help  his 
cause  along. 

He  had  an  honest  ruthlessness  in  attaining  his 
ends  which  shows  gloriously  on  the  side  of  achieve- 
ment, but,  unlike  most  statesmen,  he  had  no  shame 

176 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

in  turning  the  medal  over  and  showing  to  all  men  the 
obverse  side.  One  quality  alone  he  exhibited  to 
which  I  never  could  reconcile  myself — that  of  a 
study  of  wild-animal  life  through  post-mortems. 
His  expedition  in  Africa  for  scientific  purposes 
seemed  to  me  an  orgy  of  blood.  I  learned  more  in 
ten  minutes  about  wild  animals  in  Africa  while 
looking  at  a  cinema  picture  of  a  water-hole,  taken 
by  Paul  Rainey,  than  could  be  gleaned  from  all  those 
great  volumes  of  records  of  elephants',  rhinoceroses', 
and  lions'  death  throes  ad  nauseam.  But  I  put  that 
down  to  the  side  of  Roosevelt's  faults;  and  even 
there  perhaps  other  minds  may  not  feel  the  same 
as  I  do  toward  the  right  of  the  wild  creatures  of  the 
forest  to  "life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness." 
Where  Theodore  Roosevelt  shone  out  in  his  truest 
greatness  was  in  the  late  war.  Baffled  in  his  desire 
to  go  to  the  front  himself,  he  sent  the  boys  who  were 
his  pride  and  comfort,  who  were  his  comrades  from 
their  early  boyhood,  to  take  his  place.  How  well 
they  represented  him  is  known  by  all  men.  A  great 
man  is  like  a  great  mountain.  When  I  first  saw" 
Pikes  Peak  the  foothills  looked  enormous.  Over 
the  tops  of  them  appeared  a  little  hum.mock  against 
the  western  sky.  That  was  the  mountain  itself. 
One  day  I  started  across  the  plain  on  horseback. 
As  we  traveled  eastward  all  day  long  the  foothills 
appeared  to  flatten  out,  but  the  Peak  kept  rising 
higher  and  higher  above  them,  until,  at  thirty 
miles'  distance  against  the  western  sun  it  stood  out 
in  all  its  solitary  grandeur.  Surely  in  his  battle  for 
eternal  right  the  soul  of  Theodore  Roosevelt  towered 

177 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

above  those  faults  which  linked  him  only  the  more 
closely  to  his  fellow-men. 

The  woman  in  the  Bible  who  changed  into  a  pillar 
of  salt  met  a  fate  but  slightly  different  from  that 
of  a  great  many  elderly  people.  The  average  per- 
son, as  he  grows  older,  changes  into  a  pillar  of  chalk 
if  he  doesn't  watch  out.  The  alert  mind  of  "Uncle 
Joe  "  Cannon  saved  him  from  this  fate.  His  intenselj^ 
human  interest  in  everything  and  everybody  kept 
his  being  fluid.  At  eighty-six  he  looked  out  upon 
his  life  and  found  it  pretty  nearly  as  good  as  new. 

I  spent  a  Sunday  morning  with  him  not  many 
years  ago.  He  was  even  then  what  many  would 
call  an  aged  man;  but  no  chalk  had  clogged  his 
veins  and  his  mind  was  as  quick  and  active  as  that 
of  a  man  of  forty.  He  did  not  ignore  facts  in  order 
to  retain  his  youthful  spirit,  but  spoke  frankly  of  his 
many  years,  and  he  talked  of  death. 

We  were  all  seated  in  a  room  in  his  house  in 
Washington,  which  had  several  large  windows 
opening,  I  think,  to  the  south.  "Uncle  Joe"  looked 
up  at  one  of  the  large  windows,  kept  his  gaze  there 
as  though  he  saw  some  presence  outside,  and  said: 
"I  am  getting  on  in  years  and  I  have  seen  many  of 
my  friends  leave  this  fine  world.  My  mind  doesn't 
dwell  on  the  uncertainty  of  life;  I  enjoy  living,  I  am 
interested  in  all  that  makes  it  worth  while;  but  if  I 
saw  an  old,  muffled  figure  out  through  that  window 
and  it  pointed  its  long  bony  finger  at  me  and  said, 
'Come!'  I  should  be  ready  to  obey." 

That  always  seemed  to  me  a  fine  spirit  for  an  old 

178 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

man — to  enjoy  the  sunshine,  endure  the  shadow,  and 
be  ready  for  his  exit.  I  had  often  watched  "Uncle 
Joe"  at  work  in  the  House  and  was  impressed  with 
his  wonderful  activity.  He  made  most  of  the  other 
Congressmen  look  as  though  they  were  asleep — and 
some  of  them  generally  were. 

I  suppose  "Uncle  Joe's"  opponents  in  Congress 
could  come  close  to  proving  that  he  had  committed 
every  crime  on  the  calendar  of  politics,  but  even 
they  would  have  to  admit  that  it  is  impossible  to 
help  liking  a  man  so  intensely  alive. 

Speaking  of  age  and  a  vigorous  mind  recalls  a 
grand  old  American  of  the  native  stock  with  whom 
I  once  spent  a  few  pleasant  and  profitable  days. 
One  time  just  after  the  end  of  a  fierce  political 
campaign  I  shipped  my  canoe  from  New  York  Bay 
down  to  Virginia.  A  railroad  strike  held  it  up  and  I 
was  marooned  in  a  little  inn  near  some  mineral 
springs  for  a  number  of  days.  An  old  Indian — he 
must  have  been  eighty  at  least — was  stopping  there, 
taking  the  waters  for  his  rheumatism.  He  was  a 
very  tall,  sturdy  old  man,  exceedingly  well  edu- 
cated.   I  spent  a  good  deal  of  my  time  with  him. 

His  history,  as  he  recounted  it  to  me,  was  a  pecul- 
iar one.  When  he  was  a  tiny  child  there  was  a  great 
fight,  in  which  his  father  took  part,  between  the 
Seminoles  and  the  whites.  He  became  separated 
from  his  people,  and  after  they  had  been  driven 
away  he  was  found  by  an  army  officer  who  later 
went  into  the  United  States  navy.  This  officer 
adopted  him — whether  legally  or  not  I  have  for- 
gotten, but  at  any  rate  brought  him  up — and  he 

179 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

spent  his  boyhood  aboard  various  naval  vessels  and 
received  his  education  from  the  officers. 

Much  of  his  life  after  he  grew  up  was  spent  as  a 
missionary,  both  spiritual  and  medical,  among 
various  tribes  of  Indians.  The  springs  where  he 
was  taking  the  waters  had  been  known  to  his  people 
from  time  immemorial  and  they  had  made  long 
journeys  in  former  times  to  this  very  place  before 
the  advent  of  the  white  race. 

The  old  Indian  and  I  used  often  to  sit  for  hours 
under  the  oak  trees  and  discuss  the  different  view- 
points of  the  white  man  and  the  Indian.  His  educa- 
tion had  been  much  more  complete  than  my  own, 
and  he  had  behind  him  an  experience  of  life  all  over 
the  world,  civilized  and  savage.  My  part  in  the 
discussions  consisted  largely  in  drawing  him  out 
with  questions.  Often  he  would  sit  for  half  an  hour 
without  saying  a  word,  looking  back  into  the  great 
storehouse  of  his  memories,  but  impenetrable. 
Then  he  would  come  out  with  a  few  pithy  words. 

He  told  me  it  was  but  seldom  he  came  in  contact 
with  a  white  man  to  whom  he  could  talk  seriously. 
As  a  rule  they  carried,  back  in  their  minds,  the  idea 
that  he,  being  Indian-born,  must  be  essentially  irre- 
sponsible, not  quite  on  their  mental  plane.  When 
he  saw  that  I  appreciated  his  highly  cultivated  mind 
the  old  fellow  gave  me  the  full  benefit  of  his  thoughts. 

In  the  last  conversation  we  had  together  he  epito- 
mized the  whole  discussion  of  the  difference  between 
the  white  race  and  the  Indian,  and  this  is  how  he 
put  it: 

"Do  you  know  what  is  the  difference  between  the 

180 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

white  man  and  the  Indian?  It  is  this:  The  white 
mail  seeks  to  inuUi'ply  his  desires — the  Indian  to 
satisfy  his  wants. '^ 

Nowhere  in  all  the  great  libraries  of  the  land  can 
so  big  a  thought  be  found  expressed  in  so  few  words 
— so  just  and  complete  an  arraignment  of  our  entire 
philosophy  of  life  and  the  civilization  which  it  has 
produced.  Time  and  again  I  have  repeated  those 
words  over  to  myself,  and  over  and  over  have  I 
seen  the  inescapable  proof  of  their  truth. 

Another  Indian  of  high  intellectual  attainments  is 
Doctor  Eastman.  On  one  or  two  occasions  I  have 
talked  with  him  about  his  people.  Doctor  Eastman 
was  born  on  the  Northern  plains.  His  parents  were 
pure-blooded  Sioux,  one  of  the  finest  races  of  all  the 
Indian  peoples. 

While  Doctor  Eastman  values  the  knowledge  of 
the  white  man  strongly,  he  yet  believes  that  the  In- 
dian knows  much  more  than  the  white  man  gives  him 
credit  for.  He  points  out  that  he  also  has  a  mind 
which  is  educated,  but  along  different  lines — an  edu- 
cation which  the  white  man's  detachment  from 
nature  causes  him  to  underrate,  if,  indeed,  he  can 
comprehend  it  at  all. 

He  told  me  of  an  incident  which  occurred  at  a 
time  when  the  people  in  Washington  wanted  to 
impress  the  principal  men  of  one  of  the  tribes  with 
the  power  of  the  government.  They  arranged  to 
have  several  of  the  older  men  from  this  tribe  make  a 
trip  to  Washington,  where  they  were  to  be  shown 
all  the  great  buildings  which  would  contrast  so 
forcibly  with  the  frail  tepees  in  which  they  lived. 

181 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

These  old  men,  Doctor  Eastman  said,  were  from 
a  mountain  country  and  were  used  to  the  sight  of 
the  towering  and  eternal  hills.  They  arrived  in 
Washington  and  their  guide  led  them  to  the  foot  of 
Capitol  Hill.  "There,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
dome  of  the  Capitol,  "is  the  work  of  the  white  man. 
What  do  you  think  of  that.?"  The  old  Indians  looked 
at  the  dome  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  one  turned 
to  the  other,  snapped  his  fingers,  blew  out  his  breath, 
and  said,  "A  bubble!" 

Doctor  Eastman  then  expressed  a  thought  which 
was  quite  in  keeping  with  what  the  old  Seminole 
had  said  years  before.  "The  Indian,"  said  he,  "looks 
on  much  of  the  civilization  of  the  white  man  as 
a  silly  multiplication  of  material  troubles."  I  am 
never  so  much  impressed  with  the  truth  of  this 
observation  as  on  October  1st,  when  we  discover  on 
moving  day  how  much  trouble  we  have  spent  years 
in  accumulating. 


CHAPTER  XII 

I  HAVE  already  told  the  story  of  a  "runaway 
assignment'*  and  of  how  it  turned  out.  That 
expedition  took  place  in  1878.  In  the  year  1879 
came  the  great  boom  in  Leadville.  Mr.  A.  A.  Hayes 
and  I  went  to  Colorado  in  July  of  that  year  for  the 
Harpers.  Mr.  Hayes  was  to  write  a  series  of  maga- 
zine articles,  and  my  part  was  to  make  pictures. 

Fifteen  years  later  I  rolled  into  Leadville  in  a 
Pullman  car;  but  in  1879  our  entry  was  quite  dif- 
ferent. A  little  narrow-gauge  road  ended  at  Fair- 
play,  and  from  there  we  proceeded  to  cross  the 
Mosquito  Range  in  a  stage  drawn  by  six  mules.  I 
sat  with  the  driver,  a  fine-fibered,  sturdy  type  only 
to  be  found  in  the  mountains.  When  I  got  aboard 
he  was  cursing  the  freight  driver,  who  had  taken  his 
wheel  mules  and  left  him  a  pair  of  green  animals 
that  had  never  been  over  the  pass;  and  good  cause 
he  had  to  use  "language,"  as  I  soon  discovered. 
The  road  over  the  Mosquito  Range  was  just  the 
width  of  the  stage,  with  perhaps  a  foot  to  spare. 
For  two  teams  to  pass  going  in  opposite  directions 
one  or  the  other  had  to  get  into  a  cut-out — if  there 
was  one.  The  road  was  also  plentifully  supplied  with 
"'cute  curves"  as  it  zigzagged  up  the  side  of  the 
mountain. 

183 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Once  we  saw  on  the  stretch  directly  above  us  an 
ore  wagon,  with  a  four-horse  team,  coming  down. 
The  driver  was  drunk,  singing  and  cracking  his 
blacksnake  whip.  Our  driver  shouted  to  him  to  get 
into  the  cut-out. 

"Plenty  of  room  to  pass,"  the  answer  came  back. 

Quick  as  a  flash,  out  came  a  gun  half  as  long  as 
my  arm  from  under  the  seat.  Our  driver  yelled, 
"Git  inter  that  cut-out!"  and  took  a  sure  aim  at 
the  drunken  man.  "All  ri'!"  came  the  reply,  and 
when  we  passed  the  ore  wagon  salutations  were 
exchanged— "Hello,  Hank!"  "Hello,  Jim!"— and 
the  ore  wagon  pulled  out  into  the  road,  the  driver 
renewing  his  song  and  cracking  his  blacksnake 
whip. 

Up  near  the  top  a  wagon  containing  a  huge  box 
was  stranded  alongside  the  road.  One  of  the  horses 
had  broken  a  leg  on  the  rocks  and  the  owner  of  the 
box  was  waiting  for  the  driver  to  return  with  another 
animal. 

As  we  rested  our  team  we  learned  that  the  box 
contained  a  grand  piano.  "Yes,"  said  its  owner, 
"I  made  a  strike  an'  I'm  buildin'  a  house  in  Lead- 
ville.  It's  all  done  'ceptin'  the  roof.  Couldn't  get  no 
shingle  boards  'n'  I  told  the  missus  I  was  goin'  ter 
git  her  the  best  planner  in  Denver.  It's  in  that  box 
an'  it  cost  fifteen  hundred  dollars  in  Denver,  a  dead 
horse  on  Muskeeter  Pass,  and  God  knows  how  much 
more  'fore  I  get  it  home." 

The  happy  owner  of  a  house  without  a  roof  and 
of  a  grand  piano  stranded  on  the  side  of  a  mountain 
waved  us  a  cheerful  good-by  as  we  passed  along. 

184 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

When  we  reached  the  top  of  the  mountain  the 
two  leaders  were  taken  off  and  we  started  down  the 
other  side  with  four  mules.  We  had  brakes  and  a 
metal  shoe  about  two  feet  long  in  which  the  rear 
right  wheel  rested.  This  shoe  was  shaped  like  a  sled- 
runner,  with  a  groove  in  which  the  wheel  set,  and  was 
attached  by  a  chain  to  the  forward  end  of  the  stage 
body. 

But  even  with  this  drag  the  mules  were  unable 
to  hold  back  the  stage  on  the  steeper  runs,  and  many 
times  we  plunged  down  the  mountainside  and  around 
those  "'cute  curves"  at  a  breakneck  pace.  Here 
the  green  wheel  mules  constantly  hugged  the  cliff- 
side,  but  when  we  came  out  on  the  edge  of  a  great 
rock,  where  one  could  look  down  for  a  thousand  feet 
or  so,  they  would  shy  to  the  other  side  in  a  most 
dangerous  fashion.  The  last  hour  of  our  journey 
down  the  mountain  was  made  in  the  pitch  dark, 
and  we  arrived  at  the  Palace  Hotel  at  about  nine 
o'clock. 

A  match  touched  to  the  windward  side  of  this 
structure  would  have  caused  it  to  disappear  in  about 
fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  as  it  was  simply  a  light 
wooden  frame  covered  with  builder's  paper.  The 
bedroom  floors  were  formed  of  slats  two  or  three 
inches  apart— and  the  ceilings  of  brown  paper. 
However,  the  dining  room,  which  at  the  moment 
interested  us  most,  had  its  tables  already  set  for 
breakfast,  and  we  sat  down  before  a  clean  cloth, 
which  looked  encouraging.  Beside  each  plate  there 
lay  what  I  took  to  be  a  very  neat  menu  card,  but  I 
noticed  that  it  was  deeply  bordered  with  black. 

185 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

The  "menu,"  which  was  intended  for  the  break- 
fast guests,  read  as  follows: 

You  are  respectfully  invited  to  attend  the  funeral  of  Nip 
Guerin,  late  cook  of  this  hotel,  at  10  a.m.  He  was  shot  by  Deputy 
Sheriff  So-and-so  while  defending  his  claim  to  a  mine  prospect 
he  had  grubstaked. 

Palace  Hotel. 

We  had  had  a  strenuous  day  and  when  I  trod  the 
slats  of  my  bedroom  it  took  but  a  little  time  to  roll 
into  bed. 

About  midnight  I  awoke  suddenly;  a  violent 
quarrel  was  proceeding  in  the  big  gambling  hall  below 
me.  Only  a  thin  film  of  paper  and  a  few  slats  sepa- 
rated me  from  the  voices  that  alternated  in  angry 
tones.  One  party  to  the  controversy  had  loaned  the 
other  some  fifteen  hundred  dollars  to  send  to  St. 
Louis  for  material  to  start  an  enterprise  in  Lead- 
ville,  the  details  of  which  I  decline  to  go  into,  and 
the  professional  person  who  carried  the  money  to 
St.  Louis  had  failed  to  return. 

I  knew  the  turn  that  quarrels  in  a  boom  town 
usually  take,  but  I  was  dreadfully  tired  and  sleepy. 
Everyone  has  heard  that  a  feather  bed  will  turn  a 
bullet.  I  wondered  if  a  piece  of  paper,  the  chance  of 
a  slat,  and  two  inches  of  straw  mattress  would  be  as 
effective.  Then  I  went  to  sleep  and  awoke  in  this 
world  the  next  morning  in  time  to  attend  the  funeral 
of  Nip,  who  died  in  the  defense  of  his  property. 

After  the  funeral  Hayes  and  I  rode  over  to  the 
Little  Pittsburg  Mine.  There  we  met  a  distinguished 
party  of  mining  men  headed  by  John  W.  Mackay, 

186 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

who  had  come  on  from  San  Francisco  to  take  a  look 
at  the  Leadville  properties,  which,  I  think,  were 
then  in  the  market.  We  all  donned  "slickers"  and 
boots,  and  a  few  of  us  at  a  time  were  lowered  down  a 
shaft  in  what  looked  like  a  large  dry-goods  box. 
Hayes  always  wore  a  white  high  hat  with  a  broad 
black  band,  and  I  remember  it  made  rather  an  odd 
combination  with  the  rest  of  his  outfit.  The  walls 
of  the  shaft  were  very  rough  and  our  dry-goods  box 
bumped  against  the  sides  as  we  made  our  crazy  way 
at  a  great  rate  of  speed  down  the  six  hundred  feet 
toward  the  bottom.  About  halfway  down  we  sud- 
denly came  to  a  halt,  stuck  fast  between  two  pro- 
jecting rocks.  We  could  distinctly  hear  the  rope 
coiling  up  on  top  of  our  box,  and  it  was  an  exceed- 
ingly disquieting  sound  when  we  considered  the 
three  hundred  or  more  feet  of  space  between  us  and 
the  bottom  of  the  shaft.  Up  aloft,  however,  the 
engineer  quickly  realized  that  his  rope  was  running 
free,  and  in  a  moment,  with  a  heartbreaking  jerk, 
we  were  drawn  up  a  hundred  feet  or  more  and  then 
let  down  again  at  sickening  speed,  and  this  time  we 
bumped  our  way  safely  to  the  floor  of  the  mine. 

Mr.  Mackay  and  his  friends  poked  their  walking 
sticks  into  walls  of  what  looked  to  me  like  brown 
sugar,  and  after  wandering  about  in  that  dismal 
place  for  a  while  we  took  our  places  in  the  dry -goods 
box  and  returned  to  the  surface. 

Evidently  Mr.  Mackay  hadn't  a  sweet  tooth,  for 
the  "brown  sugar"  failed  to  impress  him.  Mr. 
Hayes  and  I,  having  visited  the  cemetery  and  the 
Little  Pittsburg  Mine  for  the  sake  of  Harper's  Maga- 

187 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

zine,  made  a  little  pilgrimage  on  our  own  account 
to  a  long,  low  cottage  that  stood  on  a  rising  ground 
in  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  This  was  the  home  of 
Mary  Hallock  Foote,  who  for  many  years  followed 
the  fortunes  of  her  engineer  husband,  Mr.  Arthur 
Foote,  in  the  mining  camps  of  the  Rockies  and 
Sierras.  If  Mrs.  Foote  were  not  so  identified  with 
her  work  as  a  novelist  she  would  be  better  known  as 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  illustrators  in  America. 
There  is  a  charm  about  her  black-and-white  drawing 
which  cannot  be  described,  but  it  may  be  accounted 
for  by  the  fact  that,  more  than  any  other  American 
illustrator,  she  lived  the  pictures  from  day  to  day 
which  she  drew  so  sympathetically. 

Somehow  she  and  Owen  Wister,  two  products  of 
the  most  refined  culture  of  the  East,  got  closer  to  the 
rough  frontier  character  than  any  writers  I  know, 
and  Mrs.  Foote  supplemented  this  with  pictures 
that  one  feels  were  made  while  looking  from  the 
rim  of  some  deep  canon  or  by  the  light  of  a  lantern 
in  a  lonesome  cabin.  Hayes  and  I  realized  that  it 
would  be  good,  indeed,  in  this  wild  camp  of  boomers 
to  pay  our  respects  to  a  woman  so  doubly  accom- 
plished, and  we  were  greatly  disappointed  when  we 
reined  up  at  her  door  to  find  her  cottage  closed  and 
its  windows  barricaded.  We  were  relieved  after- 
ward to  learn  that  this  ominous  appearance  of 
things  meant  simply  that  Mrs.  Foote  was  away  on  a 
two- weeks'  prospecting  trip  with  her  miner  husband. 

I  had  a  rather  odd  adventure  in  another  part  of 
Colorado  that  summer  which  taught  me  the  futility 
of  a  tenderfoot  carrying  a  gun.    The  Denver  &  Rio 

188 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Grande  Railroad  then  ran  from  Denver  to  Pueblo 
and  thence  to  some  point  a  little  south  of  there. 
The  Kansas  Pacific  and  the  Union  Pacific  were  both 
trying  to  get  control  of  it.  Court  decisions  threw 
it  into  the  hands  of  the  Kansas  Pacific  and  out 
again  three  or  four  times  during  the  summer  of  1879. 

Wlien  the  Kansas  Pacific  took  it  several  hundred 
employees  of  the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande  were  thrown 
out  of  work  and  as  many  K.  P.  men  when  the  D.  & 
R.  G.  took  hold;  and  so  it  seesawed,  much  to  the 
inconvenience  of  peaceable  passengers  who  were 
constantly  the  innocent  bystanders  in  rows  between 
the  rival  trainmen. 

On  a  day  when  I  arrived  in  Pueblo  the  Denver  & 
Rio  Grande  faction  had  just  been  thrown  out.  We 
passengers  were  quietly  eating  our  lunch  in  the 
station  dining  room  when  the  waiters  suddenly 
rushed  to  the  doors,  slammed  them  shut,  and  barri- 
caded them  with  tables  and  chairs.  An  elderly  lady 
opposite  me  rose  in  alarm,  but  her  husband,  an  old 
mining  man,  bade  her  sit  down  again.  He  calmly 
helped  himself  to  another  piece  of  pumpkin  pie. 

"Set  still,"  he  said,  "I  never  see  a  first-class  fight 
in  this  town  yet." 

Just  at  that  moment  I  heard  the  bark  of  a  gun 
right  under  our  window.  I  looked  out  and  saw  a  man 
huddled  up  close  to  the  building,  gun  in  hand.  He 
had  a  bad  cut  across  his  forehead  from  which  the 
blood  was  flowing.  Across  the  platform  a  group  of 
men  were  cutting  open  a  bundle  of  ax  helves,  and 
with  these  weapons  they  held  as  pretty  a  shindy  as 
ever  was  carried  on  in  the  green  island  across  the 

189 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

sea.  Very  soon  a  posse,  with  the  Pueblo  sheriff  at 
its  head,  appeared  on  the  scene,  lined  everybody  up 
against  the  station  wall,  including  the  male  pas- 
sengers (the  old  miner  had  finished  his  pie,  mean- 
while), and  took  away  every  weapon  found.  My 
revolver  was  at  that  time  in  my  gripsack,  so  escaped. 

The  next  day  I  stood  on  the  station  platform, 
waiting  for  the  train  to  Colorado  Springs.  My  job 
was  to  make  pictures.  I  had  a  little  sketchbook  out 
and  was  busily  engaged  drawing  an  old  prospector 
when  the  train  pulled  in.  All  at  once  a  big,  rough 
fellow  snatched  my  sketchbook  out  of  my  hand  and 
shouted : 

"Here,  boys,  here's  that  d d  reporter  that  is 

knockin'  us  in  the  Denver  papers.     Git  him!" 

I  started  after  the  fellow  to  get  back  my  book, 
but  he  shook  me  off,  waving  the  evidence  of  my 
crime  in  the  air  and  calling  to  a  group  of  perhaps 
fifty  men  at  the  far  end  of  the  station  platform  to 
"come  on.    Here  he  is!" 

An  old  man  slipped  up  beside  me  and  grabbed  me 
by  the  arm.  "Young  fellow,  take  my  advice  and 
get  into  that  train!" 

"But  he's  got  my  sketchbook,"  I  said,  hotly. 

"Never  mind  your  book,  boy;  those  fellows  are 
sore.  They  got  licked  yesterday.  Some  of  'em's 
drunk  and  armed  and  they'll  make  quick  work  of 
you  if  you  ain't  careful.  Now  do  as  I  tell  you — get 
into  the  train,  set  down  in  the  middle  of  the  coach, 
and  set  still.    Don't  say  a  word  to  no  one." 

He  was  in  dead  earnest  and  probably  knew  better 
than  I,  and  so,  much  against  my  will,  I  took  his 

190 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

advice.  Pretty  soon  the  gang  appeared,  peering 
into  the  coaches,  but,  as  only  one  of  them  knew  what 
I  looked  like,  the  ruse  of  my  aged  adviser  worked. 
The  train  pulled  out  for  Colorado  Springs  and  I 
was  safe. 

But  two  days  later  I  felt  sore  over  the  sketch- 
book and  I  felt  rather  flat  to  think  that  I  hadn't 
made  more  of  a  fight  for  it.  I  had  made  an  appoint- 
ment to  meet  a  ranch  owner  at  a  little  hotel  (that 
sounds  better  than  saloon)  near  the  station  in 
Pueblo  that  day,  and  was  to  accompany  him  to  his 
ranch  on  the  Huerfano  River.  So  I  went  to  the  gun 
shop  in  Colorado  Springs  and  bought  a  box  of 
cartridges.  The  shopkeeper  also  loaded  my  revolver 
at  the  same  time. 

I  got  aboard  the  train  for  Pueblo,  feeling  like  a  real 
man.  On  the  way  down  I  was  introduced  to  a  young 
lady  who  was  to  meet  her  brother-in-law  at  Pueblo. 
He  had  built  a  new  house  down  on  the  Huerfano 
and  she  was  on  her  way  to  visit  her  sister. 

When  we  arrived  at  Pueblo  I  assisted  my  new 
acquaintance,  whose  brother-in-law  failed  to  appear, 
to  the  hotel  bus,  and  in  doing  so  passed  a  line-up 
of  about  as  sulky  a  looking  gang  as  it  was  ever  my 
luck  to  encounter.  At  the  end  of  the  line  was  the 
man  who  had  stolen  my  sketchbook.  I  knew  I  was 
safe,  according  to  all  the  unwritten  laws  of  the 
West,  while  I  was  escorting  the  young  woman;  but 
I  also  knew  that  the  return  to  the  station  was  an 
entirely  different  matter. 

When  I  reached  the  gang  on  the  return  they  all 
looked  at  me  very  hard,  but  no  one  stirred  until  I 

191 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

was  well  by.  Then  the  leader  got  up  without  a 
word  and  started  after  me. 

There  are  times  when  the  most  timid  person  in 
the  world  realizes  that  he  is  "up  against  it,"  that 
there  is  no  more  safety  in  flight  than  in  facing  the 
music.  And  I  must  admit  I  felt  the  music  was 
going  to  play  in  the  next  few  minutes. 

Between  me  and  the  little  hotel  where  I  was  to 
meet  my  friend,  the  ranchman,  lay  a  lot  of  sidetracks. 
On  them  were  a  number  of  freight  and  empty 
passenger  coaches.  I  walked  slowly  to  the  first  row 
of  cars,  climbed  over  the  platforms,  and  in  the  mo- 
ment, while  out  of  sight  of  my  pursuer,  transferred 
my  .38  "bulldog"  from  my  hip  pocket  to  the  side 
pocket  of  my  coat.  As  I  climbed  over  the  couplings 
of  a  freight  car  my  follower  was  just  dropping  down 
off  the  platform  of  the  passenger  car  behind  me. 
One  more  row  of  passenger  cars  was  ahead  of  me. 
Not  a  word  had  passed  between  me  and  the  man  at 
my  heels.  Certainly  I  was  justified  in  thinking  that 
either  his  time  or  mine  had  come  in  that  lonesome 
spot.  I  remember  well  I  saw  the  whole  consequences 
plain  as  day  before  me.  A  shot  would  bring  the 
whole  gang  on  me  in  a  jiffy,  but  what  was  the  differ- 
ence? If  I  was  to  be  murdered,  it  was  better  to  die 
in  a  fight  than  to  be  killed  like  a  sheep. 

All  this  passed  like  lightning  through  my  mind 
as  I  climbed  up  on  the  platform  of  that  last  row  of 
cars.  Then,  with  my  hand  in  my  coat  pocket,  hold- 
ing my  gun  cocked  (the  barrel  was  less  than  six 
inches  long,  but  it  was  a  powerful  weapon),  I  turned 
and  made  my  stand. 


'^k*^ 


A  CARTOON  WHICH  KILLED  A  BAD  BILL  AT  ALBANY 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

"What  is  your  business  with  me?  You  want  to 
speak  mighty  quick!" 

Thereupon  my  pursuer  replied  that  the  superin- 
tendent of  the  railroad  had  wired  him  from  Colorado 
Springs  that  I  was  all  right;  so  he  had  followed  me 
to  apologize  for  taking  my  book,  which  he  had  sent 
on  to  the  superintendent.  He  didn't  like  to  back 
water  before  all  the  boys,  so  he  was  following  me 
over  to  the  saloon  where  we  could  have  a  drink 
together.  And  that  we  did  in  company  with  the 
ranch  owner  and  ex-Governor  Boise,  who  by  chance 
was  thirsty  that  morning.  There  is  a  curious  sequel 
to  this  story,  which  must  wait  until  I  recount  what 
happened  to  my  young  lady  and  the  old  ranchman 
and  myself. 

My  ranchman  was  too  gallant  an  old  fellow  to 
leave  a  lady  in  distress,  so  we  drove  over  to  the 
South  Pueblo  Hotel,  where  he  offered  his  services. 
She  did  not  know  where  her  brother-in-law's  ranch 
was  located  except  that  it  was  in  the  Huerfano 
Valley,  and  the  ranchman  only  knew  that  it  was 
somewhere  outside  of  his  eighty-thousand-acre  tract. 
The  lady  thought  it  was  about  twenty -five  or  thirty 
miles  from  the  railroad.  With  these  vague  clews  to 
go  by  we  loaded  up  our  passenger's  trunks  and 
started  off. 

Keeping  the  twin  Spanish  Peaks  off  our  starboard 
bow,  we  steered  a  fairly  straight  course  for  the  Huer- 
fano River.  Twilight  came  while  we  were  still 
wandering  through  the  wilderness.  Not  a  sign  of  a 
house  had  we  seen  all  afternoon — and  a  house  in 
that  country  usually  shows  up  for  an  immense  dis- 

193 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

tance.  Brother-in-law  had  just  completed  a  new 
brick  house  of  which  he  was  very  proud,  so  our 
young  lady  told  us. 

It  grew  dark.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars 
in  that  country  shone  out  with  a  glorious  brilliancy. 
Suddenly  the  old  ranchman,  whose  eyes  were  better 
trained  than  ours,  called  out:  "The  house!  The 
house!"  There  it  loomed  up,  as  we  neared  it,  a 
black  silhouette  against  the  sky,  but  not  a  light 
visible.  We  approached  closer  and  closer — not  a 
single  sign  of  life  anywhere.  And  when  we  drew  up 
within  a  few  feet  we  saw  there  were  no  windows, 
only  openings,  and  no  doors! 

For  a  moment  we  sat  horror-stricken. 

"Great  God!  a  fire!"  the  old  ranchman  groaned. 
The  young  lady  gasped.  I  jumped  down  and  ran  to 
the  open  doorway.  The  house  was  filled  two  feet 
deep  with  mud. 

"Not  a  fire,  but  a  flood,"  I  called.  Then  we  drove 
around  the  house,  where  could  be  seen  a  glimpse  of 
the  river.  A  clump  of  trees  crowned  a  rising  ground 
on  our  right  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  and  there  we 
saw  a  dim  light.  We  raced  our  tired  horses  toward 
it,  and  from  a  little  A  tent  appeared  poor  brother- 
in-law.  A  terrible  flood  three  days  before  had  swept 
through  the  new  house,  which  had  been  built  on 
ground  high  enough  to  have  been  considered  safe. 
It  had  carried  out  the  windows  and  most  of  the  fur- 
niture; all  they  had  left  was  the  tent  and  a  small 
supply  of  food  which  he  had  managed  to  carry  from 
the  house.  Our  young  lady  sprang  out  of  the  wagon 
and  into  the  little  tent  to  her  sister,  and,  although 

194 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

the  old  ranchman  tried  to  persuade  the  little  family 
to  go  with  us  to  his  house,  they  would  not  think  of 
abandoning  their  own  place.  The  plucky  little 
woman  we  had  brought  to  this  forlorn  wreck  of  a 
home  had  us  dump  her  trunks  out  under  the  cotton- 
wood  trees.  As  we  reluctantly  left  them  she  smil- 
ingly made  us  a  grand,  sweeping  bow  and  disap- 
peared into  the  tiny  tent. 

We  left  brother-in-law  a  good  share  of  the  pro- 
visions which  the  old  ranchman  had  bought  in 
Pueblo,  and  drove  down  the  valley  in  search  of  the 
ranch  house.  To  avoid  the  endless  bends  of  the 
river  we  soon  made  our  w^ay  out  on  to  the  plains. 
On  three  sides  of  us,  miles  away,  rose  the  mountains, 
some  of  them  snow-capped,  all  mysterious,  ghostly; 
and  above  us  was  spread  such  a  starry  host  as  can 
only  be  seen  in  that  clear  sky. 

Far  away  through  the  gloom  we  could  make  out  a 
great  flock  of  sheep,  some  of  the  animals  standing, 
others  lying  down.  A  solitary  shepherd  stood  beside 
his  flock.  We  drew  nearer;  not  a  sheep  moved. 
We  drove  between  two  great  groups  and  directly 
past  the  shepherd.  He  had  a  sort  of  white  hood 
which  covered  his  head,  a  sheepskin  coat,  and  a 
staff  on  which  he  leaned.  We  passed  within  a  rod 
of  him.  He  made  neither  a  m.ove  nor  a  sound. 
Had  he  and  all  his  thousand  sheep  been  carved  out 
of  marble  they  could  not  have  looked,  under  the 
flickering  stars,  more  like  a  company  of  silent 
ghosts. 

As  we  passed  by  the  shepherd  the  old  ranchman 
grasped  my  arm  with  a  grip  like  iron.    "Great  God! 

195 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

WTiat  are  they?"  he  said.  I  do  not  understand  to 
this  day  how  it  was  that  the  passage  of  our  wagon 
went  so  completely  unnoticed. 

The  old  man  was  really  shaken;  strange  things 
happen  in  the  mountains  and  on  the  deep  ocean 
that  cannot  be  explained  in  a  steam-heated  flat. 
Toward  morning  we  reached  the  ranch  house,  which 
was  what  remained  of  an  ancient  Spanish  mansion, 
with  cowboy  additions.  The  next  afternoon  came 
the  sequel  to  my  little  near-homicide  story,  illus- 
trating the  futility  of  a  tenderfoot  toting  a  gun. 
Several  of  the  cowboys  were  out  in  a  ruined  part  of 
the  old  Spanish  house  and  had  put  up  a  target  against 
the  thick  walls  of  masonry.  They  were  all  shooting 
away  at  it,  and  as  one  or  two  of  them  were  indiffer- 
ent shots  I  felt  myself  quite  a  good  enough  marksman 
to  compete  with  them.  I  stood  up  with  my  "bull- 
dog" .38,  aimed,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  gun 
missed  fire.  I  felt  a  cold  sweat  ooze  out  on  my  fore- 
head as  I  reflected  what  that  might  have  meant  the 
morning  before.  I  examined  the  cartridge  which 
had  been  placed  in  my  revolver  by  the  Colorado 
Springs  gunsmith.  My  revolver  was  of  the  "rim 
fire"  variety,  the  cartridge  "center  fire."  I  returned 
to  the  house  and  buried  that  gun  down  in  the  bottom 
of  my  gripsack,  never  to  be  carried  again. 

The  gentlemen  who  sell  tires,  not  to  speak  of 
chewing  gum  and  other  necessities  of  modern  life, 
seem  to  live  in  deadly  fear  that  the  public  will  forget 
such  things  exist.  Doubtless  it  is  a  good  thing  to 
remind  a  man  at  every  turn  of  the  road  while  he  is 

196 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

wearing  out  a  pair  of  old  tires  that  soon  he  will  need 
new  ones.  But  perhaps  there  may  be  too  much  of  a 
good  thing.  At  any  rate,  artists,  as  a  rule,  think 
nature  unadorned  (by  billboards)  would  be  adorned 
the  most. 

In  a  wild  Western  state  many  years  ago  billboard 
advertising  on  a  gigantic  scale  was  dealt  a  lethal 
blow  by  one  lone  artist.  I  hope  this  account  of  what 
happened  in  Colorado  in  1879,  the  year  of  the  great 
Leadville  boom,  may  give  new  courage  to  Mr.  Joseph 
Pennell;  for  no  matter  how  hopeless  his  self-imposed 
task  of  ridding  our  landscapes  of  billboards  may 
seem,  he  can  hark  back  to  this  as  a  precedent  of 
victory. 

Tom  Parrish  of  Colorado  Springs  was  an  etcher, 
and  a  very  good  one.  He  was  also  interested  in 
mining  properties.  Both  these  lines  of  endeavor  took 
him  about  in  the  mountains,  and  he  was  greatly 
distressed  when  he  saw  advertising  signs,  with  letters 
ten  and  twenty  feet  high,  painted  on  the  great  cliffs 
which  formed  the  mountainsides  of  that  wonderful 
region. 

Tom  Parrish  was  a  mining  man  by  force  of  circum- 
stances, but  he  was  an  artist  by  nature.  Artists, 
public  opinion  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  are 
practical  people.  They  deal  with  the  visible  world, 
and  the  visible  world  in  Colorado  was  being  ruined 
by  a  lot  of  vandals. 

Tom  Parrish  was  a  popular  man  in  Colorado 
Springs.  He  got  himself  nominated  for  state  senator 
and  won  the  election.  Then  he  prepared  a  bill  mak- 
ing it  an  offense  punishable  by  a  fine  of  one  thou- 

197 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

sand  dollars  or  one  year  in  jail  to  deface  the  scenery 
in  the  state  of  Colorado.  This  bill  also  provided  that 
offenders  should,  at  their  own  expense,  obliterate  all 
signs  hitherto  painted  on  the  rocks.  When  this  bill 
was  presented  and  read  before  the  legislature  a 
howl  of  derision  greeted  it. 

"We  are  practical  men,"  said  the  other  members 
of  the  legislature,  "not  a  lot  of  fool  dreamers.  We 
want  business,  and  advertising  means  business. 
You'd  better  go  back  to  making  pictures  and  not 
laws,  Parrish." 

"All  right,"  said  Parrish,  "I'll  make  you  a  picture 
right  now  that  maybe  you  can  see.  You  want 
business;   so  do  I. 

"Wliat  has  Colorado  to  sell?  Silver  and  scenery! 
Just  those  two  products — silver  to  the  mints,  scenery 
to  the  tourists.  You  haven't  another  thing  to  offer; 
and  the  best  and  surest  product  you've  got  you  are 
willing  to  let  a  lot  of  rustlers  destroy.  There's  my 
picture.    WTiat  are  you  going  to  do  about  it.^^" 

An  old  miner  got  up  and  banged  his  fist  down  on 
his  desk. 

"Parrish  is  right.  He's  got  more  business  in  his 
head  than  all  of  us  put  together.  Let  us  pass  his 
bill!" 

They  did;  the  Governor  signed  it  and  it  became 
the  law  of  the  state.  Tom  Parrish  told  me  the  story 
of  his  successful  fight  in  the  old  El  Paso  Club  in 
Colorado  Springs  in  1879. 

In  Joseph  Jefferson's  Autobiography  is  a  story  of 
an  adventure  with  a  lonely  sheepherder  and  his  dog 
in  Australia  which  was  so  like  an  experience  I  once 

198 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

met  with  in  a  little  mining  camp  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains  that  I  felt  as  though  the  big-hearted  old 
actor  was  relating  my  own  experience. 

I  had  hobbled  my  horse  and  was  sketching  a  row 
of  mud-roofed  shacks  that  dismally  strung  themselves 
along  a  lonesome  gully  near  what  had  once  been  a 
paying  mine.  Only  one  of  the  houses  was  occupied. 
On  top  of  its  roof  grew  a  single  shriveled  sunflower 
and  in  its  door  stood  an  irresolute-looking  man  and 
a  very  tiny,  shaggy  dog,  who  danced  about  him  and 
wagged  its  tail  with  unwearied  energy.  Finally 
the  man's  curiosity  overcame  his  diffidence  and  he 
came  and  looked  over  my  shoulder.  He  had  a 
gentle,  hushed  sort  of  voice,  and  when  he  addressed 
me  it  was  only  for  a  word  or  two,  when  he  would 
turn  to  the  little  dog  and  continue  his  remarks  to 
him.  The  dog's  conversational  powers  were  located 
in  his  tail  and  he  could  wag  that  instrument  of  speech 
almost  as  eloquently  as  some  men  can  their  tongues. 
When  my  sketch  was  completed,  my  new  friend 
pressed  me  to  stop  awhile  and  go  with  him  to  the 
crest  of  a  hill  back  of  the  house,  where  we  could  see 
a  wonderful  sunset. 

"Couldn't  we,  Dick.^^  Of  course  we  could.  We 
always  do.  Every  evening  we  watch  the  shadows 
creep  down  the  valley.    Don't  we,  Dick?" 

We  sat  awhile  in  his  dismal  home.  He  was  an 
assayer,  had  been  prosperous  before  the  district  went 
broke,  hated  to  leave  the  place — he  and  Dick. 
Hoped  some  claims  he  held  near  by  would  eventu- 
ally prove  valuable  for  him  and  Dick.  Always  his 
attention  left  me  before  a  sentence  was  finished  and 

199 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

was  transferred  to  Dick,  and  Dick's  opinion  was 
asked  (and  given)  before  another  topic  was  intro- 
duced. Toward  sunset  we  wandered  up  to  the 
hilltop  and  sat  down  on  the  rocks — we  three. 

"This  is  the  Wet  Mountain  Valley  down  below 
us — yes,  it  is,  Dick — and  yonder  are  the  three  great 
peaks  of  the  Sangre  de  Cristo  Range,  the  Trois 
Tetons. 

"Yes,  Dick,  we  know  them,  and  when  the  sun 
sinks  down  behind  them  every  night  we  watch  their 
shadows  travel  down  the  valley. 

"Yes,  Dick,  we  keep  very  quiet  while  the  shadows 
creep  down  and  the  wind  steals  around  us  in  the 
grass;  and  then  sometimes  we  feel  a  little  lonesome, 
Dick.  Yes,  sir,  it's  over  a  hundred  miles  down  to  the 
Spanish  Peaks;  the  shadows  travel  all  the  way  down 
the  valley  to  meet  them,  Dick,  and  when  they  fill 
the  valley  we  go  home  to  our  little  house  in  Hungry 
Gulch. 

"That's  our  home;  we're  used  to  it;  we  can't 
leave  it.    Can  we,  Dick?" 

And  soon  the  glorious  sunset  was  over,  the  shadows 
traveled  down  the  valley  until  they  met  the  Spanish 
Peaks;  they  filled  the  valley;  a  cold  wind  sprang 
up.    I,  too,  felt  a  little  lonely. 

I  parted  with  my  friend  and  Dick  at  the  door  of 
their  home,  under  the  shriveled  sunflower. 

"Good  night,  sir.  Keep  to  the  right  at  the  big 
pine  and  watch  out  for  the  'slipping  rocks'  beyond. 
Yes,  Dick,  you're  liable  to  fall  into  the  gulch  off  the 
slipping  rocks.'* 


CHAPTER  XIII 

I  WAS  fortunate  enough  to  be  assigned  to  accom- 
pany President  Cleveland  on  his  great  tour  over 
the  country  during  his  first  term  of  office,  when 
the  hospitality  of  a  whole  nation  was  lavished  on 
the  stalwart  President  and  his  beautiful  young  wife. 
On  this  trip  Mrs.  Cleveland  was  assured  a  hundred 
times  of  a  unanimous  election  if  she  were  running 
for  President.  I  am  sure  she  will  pardon,  after 
this  lapse  of  years,  a  little  inside  history — even  a 
little  joke  on  herself  and  the  President  connected 
with  this  journey.  But  let  me  preface  it  by  telling 
a  joke  on  myself. 

We  had  swung  around  half  of  the  circle — Indian- 
apolis, Chicago,  St.  Paul,  and  St.  Louis — and  had 
finally  reached  Memphis,  where  we  were  literally 
overwhelmed  with  Southern  hospitality.  They 
simply  could  not  do  enough  for  us,  and  the  veriest 
stranger  one  met  on  the  street  insisted  on  offering 
something  in  the  way  of  entertainment.  Just  before 
time  for  our  train  to  leave  town  I  was  called  upon, 
at  my  hotel,  by  a  gentleman  who  said  he  was  com- 
missioned by  the  Semmes  Brothers  to  present  the 
three  members  of  the  press  accompanying  the  Presi- 
dent, with  three  bottles  of  very  old  whisky,  "Made 
in  Maryland  by  their  grandfather  before  the  war, 

201 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

sir!"  and  from  a  valise  which  he  carried  he  produced 
three  bottles  in  bright-yellow  wrappers. 

My  baggage  was  already  on  its  way  to  the  train 
and  I  had  with  me  only  my  overcoat  and  a  small 
handbag.  I  placed  one  bottle  in  the  satchel,  and  the 
other  two  I  carefully  concealed  in  the  pockets  of 
my  overcoat,  which  I  carried  inside  out  over  my 
arm.  No  carriage  being  obtainable  at  the  hotel  door, 
I  started  to  walk  to  the  train,  endeavoring,  mean- 
while, to  look  as  unconscious  as  possible. 

So  burdened,  I  had  progressed  not  more  than 
halfway  down  the  block  when  I  was  overhauled  by 
a  breathless  old  gentleman  with  a  long  white  mus- 
tache and  goatee,  who  said  he  had  seen  me  with  the 
President  and  knew  I  was  one  of  "our  honored 
visitors  from  the  North,"  and  wound  up  by  request- 
ing the  pleasure  of  inviting  me  to  a  drink.  I  replied, 
while  the  bottles  in  my  coat  pockets  clinked  merrily 
together,  that  I  never  drank. 

"Then  come,  sir,  with  me  to  a  friend  of  mine 
around  the  corner.  He  has  some  fine  old  Maryland 
whisky  made  before  the  war;  and  I  will  ask  you,  sir, 
to  convey  a  bottle  of  it  to  our  honored  President, 
who,  I  am  sure,  takes  a  little  for  his  stomach's  sake." 

I  feared  I  would  hardly  have  time  to  catch  the 
train,  but  the  old  gentleman  said  he  would  show  me 
a  short  cut  to  the  station  and  insisted  that  I  carry  a 
bottle  from  "an  old  Confederate  veteran  to  his 
honored  President."  There  was  no  escape,  so  around 
the  corner  to  Semmes  Brothers  we  went,  and  I  was 
presented  with  a  bottle  in  a  yellow  wrapper  to  carry 
to  the  President. 

202 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

There  was  no  place  left  to  conceal  this  bottle; 
besides,  it  was  a  present  for  the  President  of  the 
United  States.  So  with  the  little  satchel  in  my  left 
hand,  my  overcoat  carelessly  thrown  over  my  left 
arm,  a  large  yellow-wrapped  bottle  in  my  right 
hand,  and  accompanied  by  a  florid  old  gentleman 
who  was  very  much  blown,  I  arrived  at  the  rear  of 
our  special  train.  Here  a  dense  crowd  blocked  the 
way.  To  my  dismay,  Mrs.  Cleveland  was  the  first 
to  spy  me,  and  at  her  suggestion  I  was  rescued  and 
brought  on  board  by  two  stalwart  train  porters,  one 
of  whom  insisted  on  carrying  my  overcoat,  out  of 
which  protruded  two  yellow-wrapped  bottles  closely 
matching  the  third  in  my  hand. 

"For  the  President,  compliments  of  Colonel 
Blank,  an  old  Confederate  soldier!"  was  all  I  had 
breath  to  say;  and  the  one  bottle  concealed  in  my 
handbag  was  all  the  three  "honorable  correspond- 
ents" got  for  their  share. 

We  proceeded  from  Memphis  to  Nashville  and 
thence  to  other  Southern  points.  On  the  way  over 
the  mountains  we  had  some  trouble  with  our  heavy 
Pullman  cars,  as  the  light  passenger  engine  was 
hardly  powerful  enough  to  haul  the  train. 

On  one  occasion  we  had  stopped  for  a  change  of 
engines  at  a  little  mountain  village,  and  the  citizens, 
knowing  we  must  stop,  had  arranged  a  reception  to 
the  best  of  their  knowledge  and  ability  in  honor  of 
the  President.  There  was  no  depot  at  this  station, 
only  a  platform.  On  this  they  had  laid  a  red-and- 
yellow  rug  of  the  fieryest  tints  obtainable,  and  upon 
it  had  placed  two  new  red-plush  armchairs.     Be- 

203 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

tween  the  chairs  was  a  little  round  stand,  shining 
with  fresh  varnish,  and  on  the  stand  a  figured-glass 
vase  in  which  stood  a  few  flowers.  While  the  engine 
was  being  changed  the  first  citizen  of  the  village 
approached  the  train  and  invited  the  President  and 
Mrs.  Cleveland  to  alight  and  enjoy  the  hospitality 
of  the  hamlet. 

I  am  not  sure  the  President,  if  by  himself,  would 
have  come  down  to  sit  in  that  red-plush  chair;  but 
Mrs.  Cleveland  never  hesitated  a  moment,  and  of 
course  he  had  to  follow.  By  no  sign  could  it  be  dis- 
covered that  she  considered  the  spectacle  of  two 
people  sitting  out  in  the  glaring  sun  on  red-plush 
chairs  as  anything  out  of  the  ordinary.  The  train 
backed  and  switched  about  in  the  aimless  way  of 
railway  trains,  and  we  on  board  obtained  occasional 
glimpses  of  a  very  serious-looking  gentleman  and  a 
beautiful,  smiling  lady  enthroned  in  red  plush  and 
being  stared  at  by  a  circle  of  bashful  mountain  peo- 
ple who  apparently  could  not  get  up  courage  to 
approach  and  speak  to  them. 

Presently  we  pulled  merrily  away  and  went  on, 
through  a  deep  cut  and  down  a  steep  grade,  until 
one  of  the  correspondents  approached  the  conductor 
and  inquired  when  we  were  going  back  after  the 
President. 

"Great  jumping  Scott,  sir!"  exclaimed  that  offi- 
cial.   "Isn't  he  aboard?" 

Not  until  the  bottom  of  the  grade  was  reached 
did  the  train  come  to  a  stop,  and  then  the  miserable 
little  engine  could  not  back  it  up  again  until  we  ran 
out  a  mile  farther  and  got  a  good  start. 

204 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

An  hour  lalor,  when  we  once  more  ran  alongside 
the  platform,  the  President  was  mopping  his  brow 
wearily.  Mrs.  Cleveland,  however,  had  by  that  time 
captured  every  vote  in  the  county. 

It  has  always  been  a  puzzle  to  me  how  Grover 
Cleveland  ever  got  into  politics.  His  characteristics 
were  about  as  far  removed  from  those  of  the  average 
politician  as  are  the  poles  one  from  the  other.  To 
be  "all  things  to  all  men"  was  to  him  unthinkable. 
To  put  on  a  smile  when  his  thought  called  for  a 
frown  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him.  To  refrain 
from  an  action  because  it  was  not  the  opportune 
moment  politically  was  never  Grover  Cleveland's 
way  if  his  duty,  as  he  saw  it,  demanded  action. 

And  yet  he  realized  his  own  limitations,  knew  that 
diplomacy  had  its  legitimate  place  in  politics  and 
statesmanship,  and  while  President  was  generally 
willing  to  hsten  to  the  astute  counsels  of  "Dan" 
Lamont  and,  I  make  bold  to  say,  the  gentler  but  no 
less  wise  counsels  of  his  young  wife.  The  "swing 
around  the  circle"  on  which  I  accompanied  him  was 
made  at  a  time  when  he  was  about  to  run  as  a  can- 
didate for  a  second  term.  He  was  unpopular  with 
the  politicians  of  his  ovm  party  at  that  time  and 
had  no  very  strong  following  among  the  people. 
In  the  northern  half  of  our  circling  swing  we  traveled, 
for  the  most  part,  through  hostile  country.  An  in- 
gratiating attitude,  flattering  phrases,  and  all  the 
familiar  tricks  of  a  politician  looking  for  popular 
favor  were  in  order  if  Mr.  Cleveland  was  to  follow 
the  regular  political  formula.  But  he  would  have 
none  of  it. 

205 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

It  is  true  that,  as  the  Republican  papers  of  the  day 
said,  he  read  the  encyclopaedia  every  night  to  dis- 
cover therein  the  facts  known  in  regard  to  the  ter- 
ritory we  were  traversing  and  repeated  them  almost 
verbatim  the  next  day  to  the  assembled  crowds. 
Chauncey  Depew,  who  was  traveling  in  the  North- 
west, preceded  us  by  one  day  on  our  journey  to 
Sioux  Falls.  There  the  citizens  had  erected  a  "corn 
palace."  It  was  a  really  beautiful  structure  and 
was  made  entirely  of  corn.  Depew  made  a  speech 
in  this  "palace,"  in  which  he  said: 

"To-morrow  the  Chief  Executive  of  the  nation 
will  speak  to  you.  He  will  tell  you  of  the  marvelous 
growth  of  your  farms,  of  the  upbuilding  of  your 
cities,  of  the  progress  you  have  made  in  education 
and  all  the  arts  of  civilization;  but  he  will  say  no 
word  in  praise  of  this  beautiful  structure,  this 
palace  made  as  none  other  was  ever  made  before; 
for  no  mention  is  made  of  a  corn  palace  in  any 
encyclopaedia." 

Very  early  next  morning  I  saw  the  story  in  a 
morning  paper  and  gave  it  to  "Dan"  Lamont.  We 
handed  it  to  Mr.  Cleveland.  He  was  big  enough  to 
get  a  hearty  laugh  out  of  what  he  said  was  a  legiti- 
mate hit  by  the  effervescing  Chauncey. 

Although,  as  far  as  politics  went,  we  were  in  the 
enemy's  country,  no  Republican  President  could  have 
been  received  with  more  warm-hearted  hospitality 
than  was  this  uncompromising  old  Democrat.  As 
a  matter  of  course,  he  refrained  from  all  reference 
to  politics  and  maintained  the  attitude  of  President 
of  all  the  people.    He  was  of  their  own  kind.    But 

206 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

to  his  wife  went  out  the  affection  and  enthusiasm 
of  everyone.  From  the  porters  on  the  train  to  the 
Governor  of  a  state  each  one  felt  the  effect  of  some- 
thing that  was  higher  than  tact;  and  it  was  fre- 
quently said  by  old,  dyed-in-the-wool  Republicans, 
"Well,  if  she  was  runnin'  for  President  I'd  sure  vote 
the  Democratic  ticket  for  once." 

When  Grover  Cleveland  was  living  at  Buzzards 
Bay,  during  President  Harrison's  administration,  his 
most  distinguished  neighbor  was  Joseph  Jefferson. 
A  dinner  at  Sandwich,  Massachusetts,  was  given 
Mr.  Cleveland  in  1892,  which  was  really  the  opening 
of  the  campaign  at  the  end  of  which  he  was  elected 
a  second  time  to  the  Presidency.  I  went  up  to  the 
dinner  for  Harper's  Weekly  and  there  met  Mr.  Jef- 
ferson. He  had  driven  over  in  his  little  two-wheeled 
cart  from  Buzzards  Bay.  He  wore  an  old  floppy 
gray  hat  and  tweed  suit.  He  seemed  to  know  every- 
body, mainly,  I  suppose,  because  everybody  knew 
him.  Many  of  Mr.  Cleveland's  stanch  friends  were 
there.  I  remember  Richard  Watson  Gilder  particu- 
larly because  he  was  dressed  all  in  white — a  big 
white  Panama  hat  and  a  white-flannel  suit  which 
was  decorated  with  three  white  water  lihes  with 
long  stems  that  hung  nearly  to  the  ground. 

After  the  dinner  I  drove  back  to  Buzzards  Bay 
in  the  two-wheeled  cart  with  Mr.  Jefferson.  It 
took  us  a  long  time,  because  the  old  horse  and  old 
actor  were  such  intimate  friends,  and  I  think  the 
animal  had  absorbed  a  good  deal  of  the  character 
of  Rip  Van  Winkle  from  his  master.  When  we 
came  to  a  tree  with  low-hanging  branches  he  would 

207 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

stop  and  eat  all  the  leaves  witliin  reach  and  Mr. 
Jefferson  would  quietly  await  his  pleasure. 

I  spent  the  next  twenty -four  hours  at  Buzzards 
Bay.  We  sat  up  far  into  the  night  and  were  up 
early  the  next  morning. 

It  would  be  hard  to  match  that  day  with  Joe 
Jefferson.  His  active  mind  had  explored  many 
paths;  his  travels  had  taken  him  to  many  lands; 
his  life  had  been  one  of  varying  fortunes.  He  talked 
about  everything  under  the  sun  and  illuminated 
every  topic.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  opened  up 
a  treasure  house  that  day  and  bade  me  help  myself. 
If  my  back  had  been  broader  I  might  have  carried 
away  a  king's  ransom. 

As  it  is,  I  can  return  to  that  day  with  Jefferson 
and  trace  from  it  a  new  inspiration  and  under- 
standing of  art  and  life.  Anyone  who  has  read  Mr. 
Jefferson's  autobiography  knows  how  delightfully 
humor  and  wisdom  are  mingled  in  all  his  thoughts. 
Add  to  that  the  energetic  manner  of  speech,  the 
quick,  spontaneous  interjections  when  thought  piled 
upon  thought,  as  I  had  them  that  day,  and  one  can 
appreciate  how  great  was  my  privilege. 

"With  all  Jefferson's  ideality  and  humor  and  phi- 
losophy there  was  mixed  a  very  practical  common 
sense.  His  perfectly  balanced  mind  realized  the 
value  of  each  element  in  its  place.  He  believed  it  an 
artist's  duty  to  make  every  effort  to  reap  the  reward 
of  his  talents. 

Another  thing  he  dwelt  upon  was  the  necessity  of 
lying  fallow  occasionally — "Looking  at  the  world 
with  your  hands  in  your  pockets,"  he  called  it.   "Try 

208 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

so  to  order  your  affairs  that  j^ou  have  periods  of 
leisure,  to  allow  the  mind  to  recover  its  balance  and 
its  freshness." 

One  side  of  Jefferson's  house  opened  out  on  the 
water  and  commanded  a  beautiful  outlook  across 
the  bay.  On  the  other  side  the  view  was  blocked  by 
a  thick  clump  of  trees.  On  the  latter  side  he  had 
caused  a  stained-glass  window  to  be  set,  on  the  side 
toward  the  water  a  great  single  sheet  of  plate  glass. 

"Nature  paints  for  me  a  new  picture  here  every 
hour;  I  have  only  furnished  the  glass  and  the  frame. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  house  I  must  be  content 
with  what  man  can  do  for  me." 

It  is  always  very  useful  to  a  man  following  one 
craft  to  see  how  the  same  problems  arise  in  the 
practice  of  another.  The  problems  common  to  all 
are  the  essential  ones  and  most  worth  our  attention. 
A  canon  of  art  which  Mr.  Jefferson  deemed  most 
important  was  the  value  of  suggestion  as  against 
actual  representation.  I  have  referred  to  this  before. 
The  illustration  he  gave  from  one  of  his  own  experi- 
ences is  well  worth  setting  down  here. 

He  was  playing  the  impecunious  Go-lightly  in 
"Lend  Me  Five  Shillings."  In  the  play  he  puts  on 
a  greatcoat  belonging  to  some  one  else,  and  to  his 
joy  discovers  a  purse  full  of  sovereigns  in  its  pocket. 
It  was  the  duty  of  the  property  man  to  see  that  a 
purse  was  placed  there  every  night,  and  Jefferson's 
part  was  to  find  and  exhibit  it.  One  night  he  felt  in 
his  pocket  and  no  purse  was  there;  but  he  must 
manage  somehow  to  convey  to  the  audience  the  im- 
presiion  that  he  had  found  some  money. 

209 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

He  said:  "I  turned  my  back  to  the  audience,  ran 
my  hand  down  deeper  into  my  pocket  with  a  gesture  of 
surprise,  then  brought  out  an  imaginary  coin  which  I 
seemed  to  hold  in  my  hand  and  look  at.  The  scene 
made  such  a  hit  as  it  never  had  before."  After  that, 
he  said,  he  always  played  the  scene  without  a  purse. 

One  little  incident  will  give  a  more  intimate  view 
of  the  Jefferson  household  than  would  a  whole 
chapter  of  description.  Mr.  Jefferson's  young  son, 
a  boy  of  twelve  or  fourteen  years,  was  an  enthusiastic 
collector  of  butterflies.  He  set  traps  for  them  all 
over  the  place.  His  traps  consisted  of  lumps  of  sugar 
tied  with  bits  of  thread  to  bushes  and  shrubs.  INlr. 
Jefferson  and  I  were  about  to  start  on  a  walk  around 
the  place,  when  the  lad  came  out  to  warn  us. 

*'Pop,  sir,"  he  began,  with  a  delightful  mixture 
of  familiarity  and  respect,  "be  careful  not  to  dis- 
turb my  butterfly  traps;  you  know  you  have  a  very 
sweet  tooth!" 

There  could  scarcely  be  a  greater  contrast  between 
two  men  than  that  between  Joe  Jefferson  and  Grover 
Cleveland.  The  best  explanation  of  their  strong  and 
sincere  friendship  seems  to  lie  in  the  many-sidedness 
of  Jefferson.  Idealist  though  he  was,  there  was  a 
side  to  his  character  that  was  full  of  practical  wis- 
dom, and  I  doubt  not  that  the  strong  logical  mind 
of  Grover  Cleveland  found  great  pleasure  in  measur- 
ing thoughts  with  the  equally  strong  but  more 
elastic  mind  of  Joseph  Jefferson. 

When  Mr.  Bryan  appeared  like  a  very  unruly 
meteor  above  the  horizon  in  1896,  it  looked  to  a 

210 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

good  many  people  as  though  a  new  star  or  planet  or 
something  very  real  and  substantial,  as  well  as 
brilliant,  had  arrived. 

I  was  then  making  cartoons  in  Harper's  Weekly. 
The  silver  craze  was  at  its  height  and  it  became  my 
business  to  endeavor  to  show  up  the  weak  side  of 
the  Bryan  argument — to  turn  this  clever  showman's 
scenery  inside  out;  to  expose,  if  possible,  the  cheap 
theatrical  value  of  his  performance  as  it  appeared 
to  his  opponents. 

There  was  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  those  who 
saw  and  heard  Bryan  in  the  palmy  days  of  his 
oratory  that  he  was  an  actor  of  great  magne- 
tism. But  I  recognized  from  the  very  start  that 
he  was  just  that — -an  actor,  something  of  a  jug- 
gler too;  and,  looked  at  from  in  front  under  the 
proper  hght,  the  illusion  he  produced  was  almost 
perfect. 

Not  long  ago  I  met  an  old  friend  of  Bryan's  who 
sat  in  Congress  with  him  for  many  years.  This 
friend  was  a  Virginian — a  gold  Democrat.  Never, 
he  said,  had  he  agreed  with  Mr.  Bryan  on  any- 
thing politically,  although  they  belonged  to  the 
same  party.  He  told  me  of  an  incident  which  I 
think  illustrates  Bryan's  power  over  an  audience  as 
well  as  any  story  extant. 

Mr.  Bryan  had  met  with  his  customary  defeat  for 
the  Presidency  a  few  days  before,  when  he  tele- 
graphed his  Virginia  friend  that  he  was  in  Washing- 
ton and  would  like  to  come  out  and  speak  at  his 
town  if  it  was  agreeable  to  him.  The  Virginian  wired 
Mr.  Bryan  by  all  means  to  come.     In  telling  the 

211 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

story  he  remarked  that  it  couldn't  make  any  differ- 
ence, as  the  election  was  over. 

There  being  no  large  hall  in  town,  it  was  arranged 
for  Mr.  Bryan  to  speak  in  a  ten-acre  lot.  His  Vir- 
ginia friend  met  him  with  his  carriage  at  the  rail- 
road station,  and  to  his  great  distress  found  that 
Mr.  Bryan  was  feeling  quite  ill.  He  refused,  however, 
to  disappoint  his  audience,  but  requested  that  the 
carriage  wait  at  the  grounds  and  carry  him  imme- 
diately to  his  host's  home  when  the  speech  was 
over. 

On  arriving  at  the  ten-acre  lot  Mr.  Bryan  was  too 
weak  to  stand,  but  delivered  his  speech  seated  in 
the  open  carriage.  He  spoke  for  just  two  hours, 
and  when  he  had  finished  the  old  colored  man  who 
held  the  reins  started  his  horses  off  at  a  trot,  but 
only  succeeded  in  covering  a  few  feet  when  the 
crowd,  gathering  about  him,  stopped  the  carriage 
short.     The  people  simply  could  not  let  Bryan  go. 

My  Virginia  friend  told  me  that  one  old  man,  who 
was  never  known  to  speak  to  anyone  unless  he  was 
compelled  to  do  so,  rushed  up  to  the  side  of  the 
carriage  with  his  eyes  bulging  out  of  his  head, 
shouting:  "Let  me  touch  that  man's  hand!  Let  me 
only  touch  him!"  Such  a  demonstration  as  this  in 
spite  of  all  his  handicaps — a  defeated  candidate,  a 
sick  man,  an  oration  delivered  by  a  man  seated  to  a 
standing  audience — certainly  proved  the  unique 
power  of  Mr.  Bryan's  personality. 

Mr.  Bryan  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  represent 
a  certain  kind  of  thinking  that  is  intensely  popular 
all  over  the  land  between  elections.     It  recognizes 

212 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

the  fact,  which  cannot  be  gainsaid,  that  our  govern- 
ment is  far  from  perfect,  that  organized  wrong  often 
defeats  the  efforts  of  unorganized  right,  that  the 
inverse  side  of  our  glorious  shield  does  not  cor- 
respond to  the  side  which  shines  and  perhaps  dazzles. 
But  when  election  time  comes  along,  the  people  who 
have  been  inclined  to  take  the  Bryan  view  begin  to 
reflect  and  think  a  little  deeper.  They  look  at  the 
brilliant  shield  that  Mr.  Bryan  holds  aloft — the 
shield  that  is  to  take  the  place  of  the  one  they  already 
have;  and  they  ask  themselves  if  it,  too,  has  not  an 
inverse  side.  When  the  votes  are  counted  the  Bryan 
brand  of  thought  seems  to  have  lost  its  attraction  to 
a  sufficient  number  of  his  admirers  to  defeat  him. 

It  is  perhaps  too  venturesome  for  a  cartoonist  to 
forsake  his  pencil  and  attempt  to  pass  judgment  on 
some  of  the  great  and  near-great  whom  he  has  tried 
to  fit  in  their  proper  sphere  of  action.  But  I  cannot 
refrain  from  a  few  observations  on  orators  I  have 
known  or  listened  to,  which  I  offer  for  what  they  are 
worth. 

There  was  Frank  Black,  for  instance:  He  could 
string  together  more  brilliant  sentences  than  any 
man  I  ever  heard,  unless  perhaps  John  J.  Ingalls 
could  equal  him.  Black  was  not  gifted  with  a  par- 
ticularly good  delivery,  but  his  speeches  read  with  a 
smooth  elegance,  full  of  delicately  put  rapier  thrusts. 
So  far  as  I  remember  they  never  got  Frank  Black 
anywhere  in  the  political  world.  To  spin  a  fine 
phrase  is  to  men  of  that  type  the  height  of  success. 

I  remember  on  one  occasion,  when  Theodore 
Roosevelt  was  President  and  about  to  run  for  a 

213 


A  WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

second  term,  he  and  Black  sat  as  honored  guests 
at  the  same  table  at  a  banquet  in  Washington. 
Black  made  what  everyone  present  took  to  be  a 
savage  and  bitter  attack  upon  the  President.  Such 
was  the  indignation  of  the  guests,  irrespective  of 
party,  at  what  everyone  considered  an  insult  to  the 
President  of  the  United  States,  that  not  a  sound  of 
applause  was  heard  when  Mr.  Black  finished  his 
speech. 

Mr.  Roosevelt,  however,  must  have  estimated  the 
orator  at  exactly  what  he  was  worth — an  artist  in 
clever  phrases — for  two  months  later  he  suggested 
Mr.  Frank  Black  as  the  man  to  place  his  name  in 
nomination  before  the  Republican  convention.  Mr. 
Black  accepted;  and  a  comparison  of  the  two 
speeches  is  the  most  curious  example  of  how  similes 
and  words  can  be  twisted  to  fit  two  opposite  sets  of 
conditions  that  it  has  ever  been  my  privilege  to 
encounter.  The  wording  of  the  two  speeches  is 
almost  identical.  The  similes  used  are  the  same. 
The  clever  phrases  in  the  one  speech  are  used  with 
hardly  a  modification  in  the  other;  yet  one  holds 
Mr.  Roosevelt  up  to  ridicule  and  contempt,  the  other 
is  all  praise  and  adulation.  I  can  almost  hear  the 
chuckle  of  amusement  that  must  have  been  indulged 
in  at  the  White  House  when  Mr.  Roosevelt  read 
that  nominating  speech. 

Two  other  orators  to  whom  I  have  listened  with 
deep  admiration  for  their  skill  in  the  use  of  words 
were  men  who  made  their  persuasive  abilities  count 
at  the  polls.  Probably  no  two  men,  entirely  diiferent 
in   temperament   as   they   were,   ever  made  better 

214 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

impromptu  speeches  or  more  elaborate  efforts  on 
the  stmnp  than  James  A.  Garfield  and  Benjamin 
Harrison.  Harrison  particularly  seemed  happiest 
when  an  unexpected  call  was  made  on  him  for  a 
speech. 

I  once  heard  Grover  Cleveland,  who  was  about 
the  most  unready  speaker  I  ever  knew,  make  an 
impromptu  speech  which  I  shall  never  forget  and 
which  his  little  audience,  I  imagine,  remembered 
with  tingling  ears  for  some  considerable  time.  As 
I  have  said  previously,  Mr.  Cleveland  was  ordinarily 
very  careful  in  preparing  his  speeches  on  his  "swing 
around  the  circle."  With  "Dan"  Lamont  he  used 
to  sit  up  in  his  private  car  until  all  hours  of  the 
night,  composing  his  talks  for  the  next  day.  But 
in  one  Tennessee  city  he  made  an  impromptu  speech 
which  never  got  into  the  papers,  thanks  to  the  fact 
that  the  official  reporters  relied  on  advance  copies 
of  any  speech  on  the  tour. 

A  great  procession  was  passing  the  grand  stand 
where  Mr.  Cleveland  stood,  surrounded  by  a  local 
reception  committee  made  up  of  the  elite  of  the 
city.  The  President  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  plat- 
form with  his  hat  off  as  the  people  passed  by. 

It  happened  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  march- 
ing throng  were  mountaineers,  many  of  whom  wore 
coonskin  caps  and  strange,  old-fashioned  clothes 
dating  from  the  days  of  Andrew  Jackson.  This 
seemed  to  amuse  a  number  of  the  people  back  of 
Mr.  Cleveland,  and  their  laughter  and  chatter  and 
derisive  criticism  of  the  manners  and  dress  of  the 
mountaineers,  becoming  louder  and  louder,  began 

215 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

to    annoy    the    President.      Suddenly    he    wheeled 
around  and  addressed  them. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "these  good  people  who 
are  passing  by  have  come  from  their  homes  to  your 
city  to  do  honor  not  to  me,  but  to  the  great  office 
of  the  Chief  Magistrate  of  this  nation.  It  is  their 
privilege  to  do  so,  to  dress  as  their  custom  on  oc- 
casions like  the  present  best  suits  them.  I  bespeak 
for  them  the  respect  which  is  their  due." 

There  was  no  unseemly  levity  after  that! 

Many  very  kind  things  have  been  said  by  edi- 
torial writers  and  others  about  the  power  of  the 
cartoon  as  a  political  weapon.  The  cartoonists 
are,  no  doubt,  pleased  to  hear  these  favorable  com- 
ments on  their  productions,  but,  as  one  of  them,  I 
must  confess  that  it  is  the  cartoon  which  tells  some- 
thing that  everybody  already  knew,  but  which  had 
not  been  given  expression,  that  makes  the  greatest 
hit.  Some  years  ago  Mr.  George  R.  Sheldon  was 
slated  to  run  for  Governor  of  New  York.  The 
announcement  was  to  be  made  next  day.  Everybody 
knew  that  Mr.  Sheldon  was  connected  with  a  dozen 
or  more  corporations;  he  had  been  in  Wall  Street 
for  years. 

To  epitomize  the  situation  I  simply  made  a  picture 
of  Mr.  Sheldon  as  a  small  boy  playing  with  a  train 
of  cars,  each  car  labeled  with  the  name  of  a  corpora- 
tion of  which  he  was  a  director  or  officer.  "When  the 
Herald,  in  which  the  cartoon  was  published,  reached 
Albany  next  morning  Mr.  Sheldon's  name  was 
withdrawn.  He  was  a  delightfully  "good  sport" 
and  asked  me  for  the  original,  which  he  framed  and 

216 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

hung  up  in  his  office.  On  another  occasion  a  bill 
was  up  at  Albany  authorizing  an  institution  on  the 
Croton  system  to  allow  its  sewage,  after  being  dis- 
infected, to  flow  into  the  water  supply  of  the  city 
of  New  York.  I  made  a  cartoon  showing  a  filthy 
tramp  labeled  "Politics,"  with  his  feet  in  the  foun- 
tain "N.  Y.  Water  Supply";  and  it  was  reported 
by  the  newspaper  correspondents  that  my  picture 
killed  the  bill  on  sight. 

In  both  these  cases  everybody  knew  the  facts 
as  well  as  I  did,  but  they  needed  to  have  them 
visualized;  that  is  all  there  is  in  the  power  of  the 
cartoon. 

It  was  in  the  'seventies,  I  think,  that  Joseph 
Keppler  started  his  great  series  of  cartoons  in 
Puck.  If  I  were  to  make  a  cartoon  characterizing 
Keppler,  I  should  endeavor  to  draw  a  man  of  genius 
carrying  on  his  back  a  pack  of  curious  old  German 
lithographers'  traditions,  but  climbing  up  the  steep 
and  difficult  paths  of  art  in  spite  of  his  handicap. 
No  matter  if  he  drew  a  statesman  with  a  purple 
coat  and  green  trousers,  there  was  something  in 
his  picture  as  a  whole  that  was  pleasing  as  well  as 
telling  or  amusing.  I  worked  with  Mr.  Keppler  for 
a  year  and  owed  my  place  in  his  good  opinion 
largely  to  a  curious  fact — namely,  my  admiration 
for  an  old  German  book  named  Ekkehard,  a  tale  of 
mediaeval  days  in  the  Austrian  mountains  written 
in  the  exaggerated  strain  of  German  romanticism, 

"Nobody  in  America  has  before  said  to  me  he 
has  ever  heard  of  Ekkehard! "  Mr.  Keppler  declared. 
"It  is  good  that  you  should  know  that  wonderful 

217 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

book.  It  is  the  German  spirit!  One  cannot  under- 
stand the  poetry  of  our  ancient  people  if  he  does  not 
know  Ekkehard." 

It  was  while  with  Mr.  Keppler  that  I  made  a 
little  journey  one  day  to  Schiitzen  Park,  up  in  the 
Palisades;  and  there  I  saw  why  Keppler  drew  men 
with  purple  coats  and  green  trousers  and  why  he 
liked  and  lived  the  exaggerated  romanticism  of  Ekhe- 
hard.  That  day  I  saw  respectable  German  bankers 
in  yellow  vests  and  sky-blue  coats  with  wreaths  of 
oak  leaves  around  their  necks.  One  very  stout 
lady  pirouetted  about  under  the  trees  with  a  red 
mortar  board  on  her  head  and  a  tambourine  in  her 
hand.  Fat  grocers  and  butchers  paraded  through 
the  woods  with  flower-crowned  heads  or  adorned 
with  wreaths  of  laurel  and  oak  and  drank  their 
steins  of  beer  absolutely  unconscious  of  anything 
but  the  physical  joy  of  living — and  Manhattan 
Island  only  two  miles  away! 

The  only  idealists  I  ever  knew  who  amounted  to 
anything  were  the  practical  people  who  were  decent 
enough  not  to  put  everything  they  could  lay  their 
hands  on  into  their  own  pockets.  I  have  heard  a 
good  deal  about  "The  Sons  of  Mary"  and  "The 
Sons  of  Martha"  lately,  and  people  take  sides  as  to 
which  they  prefer.  My  idea  of  a  useful  citizen  would 
be  a  son  of  Mary  brought  up  by  his  Aunt  Martha. 

When  I  was  one  of  the  small  boys  in  my  home 
town,  we  were  all  wonderful  idealists.  We  used  to 
go  down  to  a  hickory  grove  and  climb  the  tallest 
trees.  Our  object  and  ideal  was  not  to  gather  the 
nuts,  but  to  climb  up  to  the  topmost  swaying  bough. 

218 


LOOKING  OVER  THE  CANDIDATE 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Up,  up  we  clambered,  careless  of  torn  trousers, 
recking  not  of  danger,  never  satisfied  until  we  were 
swinging  on  the  very  highest  bough  that  would 
bear  our  weight. 

There  we  attained  our  ideal;  but  what  was  there 
to  do  on  our  unstable  perch  except  to  "holler"? 
Not  a  thing,  save  to  climb  down  again  as  gracefully 
as  possible  and  have  our  dear  mothers  mend  our 
trousers  before  our  fathers  got  home  from  business. 
While  this  is  a  very  realistic  story,  it  will  also  serve 
as  a  parable. 

In  politics  the  people  who  lay  great  claims  to 
idealism  are  usually  up  on  the  topmost  limb  "hol- 
lering," while  some  busy  politician  lower  down  in 
the  tree  is  stowing  away  the  shellbark  nuts  that 
belong  to  the  idealist's  constituents.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  merciful  not  to  follow  the  parable  farther, 
and  yet  we  must,  for  the  torn  nether  garments  of 
the  unpractical  idealist  in  politics  have  kept  many 
an  honest  home  committee  busy  with  thread  and 
needle  repairing  the  damage. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  what  a  potent  spell  there  is 
in  a  great  noise  coming  from  a  high  place.  Over 
and  over  again  the  torn  garments  are  mended  and 
the  useless  climb  is  repeated,  until  one  day  old 
Father  Common  Sense  comes  home  early  and  the 
idealist's  day  is  done.  Then  a  very  practical  person 
is  sent  up  to  gather  the  legislative  nuts  for  his 
constituents,  and  if  he  is  fair  enough  not  to  keep 
them  all  himself  or  run  off  with  the  tree,  the  com- 
munity has  much  to  be  thankful  for.  I  can  see  some 
weak  spots  in  this  parable,  but  perhaps  it  suggests 

219 


A    WORLD^  WORTH    WHILE 

wliat  we  have  all  seen  over  and  over  in  this  demo- 
cratic country.  "We  have  had  experience  with  all 
kinds  of  men  in  responsible  places:  the  cartoonist's 
business  is  to  endeavor  to  show  where  Mary's  off- 
spring has  failed  to  be  practical,  and  where  Martha's 
son  has  forgotten  that  he  ever  had  an  Aunt  Mary. 

Everyone  has  heard  the  old  story  of  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  who  was  declaring  in  a  speech  that  the 
Lord  always  gave  the  United  States  the  right  man 
for  the  time  as  President,  when  some  old  Democrat 
in  the  audience,  who  had  probably  voted  for  Tilden, 
shouted,  "How  about  Hayes?" 

"That,"  replied  Beecher,  "is  a  case  in  point. 
When  the  war  came  and  we  needed  a  man  of  supreme 
wisdom  and  great  heart  the  Lord  gave  us  Lincoln. 
When  the  war  was  over  and  the  land,  in  turmoil, 
needed  a  strong  man,  He  gave  us  Grant.  Then  the 
country  was  sore  and  needed  a  poultice  and  the 
Lord  gave  us  a  bread-and-milk  President!" 

Now,  with  an  occasional  lapse  of  faith,  I  believe 
with  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  W^e  generally  get  the 
kind  of  man  we  need,  and  we  are  usually  fortunate 
enough  to  get  rid  of  him  when  he  has  been  Presi- 
dent long  enough.  Occasionally,  perhaps,  he  over- 
stays; but  in  that  case  he  hasn't  much  influence 
during  the  part  of  his  term  in  which  we  could  get 
on  without  him. 

The  office  of  President  of  the  United  States  is 
a  particularly  thankless  one,  for  the  incumbent 
usually  starts  in  with  practically  half  of  one  hundred 
million  people  against  him,  and  of  the  other  half, 
human  nature  being  perverse,   many  immediately 

220 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

after  election  wish  that  they  had  voted  for  his 
rival. 

Thus  he  maj^  if  my  arithmetic  is  not  at  fault, 
have  a  pretty  heavy  majority  of  his  fellow-country- 
men against  him  from  the  very  start  of  his  term  of 
office. 

I  remember  that  was  the  case  with  William  Mc- 
Kinley.  Somebody  started  the  silly  story  that  he 
was  a  man  without  resolution,  a  man  to  be  steered 
about  by  the  "master  hand"  of  Mark  Hanna;  and 
all  the  Democrats  and  many  Republicans,  ignoring 
the  whole  history  of  the  man  from  his  boyhood  up, 
believed  it.  Without  looking  up  exact  dates,  I  am 
sure  it  was  along  in  1861  that  William  McKinley 
put  on  a  man's  uniform  several  sizes  too  large  for 
his  boyish  frame  and  wore  it,  and  later  the  uniform 
of  an  officer,  with  distinguished  gallantry,  until  the 
end  of  the  Civil  War.  As  a  private  soldier  he  learned 
to  obey  and  as  an  officer  he  learned  to  command. 
No  Confederate  soldier  ever  discovered  that  he  had 
no  "backbone,"  but  perhaps  that  was  because  he 
never  turned  his  back  to  the  foe.  Because  he  never 
climbed  up  to  the  last  swaying  bough  and  "hol- 
lered," he  was  put  down  as  "too  practical,"  But 
my  idea  of  him  is  that  he  was  a  true  "Son  of  Mary" 
brought  up  and  trained  for  a  great  and  useful  career 
by  his  "Aunt  Martha." 

I  once  happened  by  an  odd  accident  to  travel  for 
a  day  with  a  former  member  of  Mark  Hanna's 
official  family.  I  cannot  give  his  name,  for  I  have 
not  his  permission  to  do  so;  but  if  this  book  should 
have  the  good  fortune  to  go  into  a  second  printing 

221 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

I  am  sure  he  will  allow  me  to  print  his  indorsement 
of  what  follows. 

My  informant  is  now  a  man  of  prominence  on  the 
Pacific  coast,  and  it  was  through  my  accidentally 
taking  the  wrong  train  at  San  Francisco  that  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  meet  him.  I  was  busy  with 
two  newspapers  when  he  came  over  to  where  I  was 
sitting  and  introduced  himself.  "I  imagine,  from 
the  way  you  go  through  your  newspapers,  that  you 
are  a  newspaper  man  yourself,"  he  said.  I  felt  that 
here  was  a  pretty  close  observer,  one  worth  talking 
to,  and  we  were  soon  deep  in  one  of  those  heart-to- 
heart  talks  which  are  possible  only  between  strangers. 
We  found  we  had  many  things  in  common,  among 
others  the  birthright  of  an  Ohio  nativity.  He  was 
from  the  old  Western  Reserve,  and  as  a  young  man 
had  occupied  the  position  of  private  secretary  to 
Mark  Hanna. 

"One  of  the  most  silly  yarns  ever  invented,"  he 
said,  "was  the  one  representing  Mark  Hanna  as 
dominating  William  McKinley,  telling  him  what  he 
must  do  and  what  he  mustn't  do.  The  real  relation 
between  those  two  men  was  directly  the  reverse. 
McKinley  was  Mark  Hanna's  ideal.  To  him  Mark 
Hanna  deferred  on  all  occasions.  He  realized  the 
superiority  of  McKinley's  intellect  and  of  his 
ethics. 

"Mark  Hanna,  as  everybody  knows,  was  about 
as  practical  a  man  as  politics  could  produce.  He 
had  no  nice  discriminating  feeling  for  methods  in 
pursuing  the  success  of  his  party,  but  he  was  big 
enough  and  had  enough  good  in  him  to  recognize 

222 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

and  admire  the  high  character  of  his  friend,  and 
McKinley  was  the  dominating  spirit  in  all  the  rela- 
tions of  the  two.  When  McKinley  vetoed  a  propo- 
sition of  Hanna's,  that  veto  was  always  accepted. 
*  William  knows  best'  was  Hanna's  comment.  Mark 
Hanna's  respect  for  McKinley 's  ideas  was  complete 
and  his  affection  for  him  greater  than  any  I  have 
ever  seen  displayed  by  one  man  for  another." 

This  is  substantially  what  a  man  who  knew  both 
men,  one  of  them  intimately,  had  to  say  of  their 
relations. 

The  last  time  I  saw  William  McKinley  he  lay  in 
the  center  of  the  rotunda  at  the  Capitol  in  Wash- 
ington, his  calm  face  turned  upward  from  amid  the 
funeral  wreaths  of  forty-eight  great  states.  The 
assassin's  bullet  had  dispersed  every  enemy  he  ever 
had.  A  soldier  standing  guard  over  the  body  of  this 
great  President  said  to  me:  "This  is  our  last  day 
with  him.    We  all  hate  to  give  him  up.'* 

A  good  many  people  will  remember  how  Goebel 
ran  for  Governor  of  Kentucky  in  1899,  was  declared 
defeated,  contested  the  election,  and  was  shot 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  Statehouse  in  Frank- 
fort a  few  weeks  later.  After  he  was  shot  he  was 
declared  Governor  and  sworn  in.  He  died  two  days 
later.  That  campaign  was  typical  in  many  ways  of 
Kentucky  politics,  and  I  was  fortunate  in  being 
there  in  the  midst  of  it.  When  I  arrived  in  Frank- 
fort, Goebel  was  on  a  stumping  tour  in  the  hill 
country  to  the  northward.  I  found  a  livery-stable 
man  who  said  he'd  like  to  hear  Goebel  himself  and 

223 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

who  agreed  to  drive  me  over  to  a  small  town  in  the 
hills  where  Goebel  was  to  speak  that  afternoon. 

Our  buggy  was  about  the  only  vehicle  on  the  road. 
Everybody  else  was  on  horseback.  I  got  a  sketch  of 
a  young  mother  in  a  big  sunbonnet,  with  a  tiny 
baby  in  her  arms,  jogging  along  on  a  fine  bay  horse. 
No  one  seemed  too  poor  to  own  a  good  horse;  young 
and  old  men  and  women  thronged  the  road,  mounted 
on  fine  sure-footed  beasts,  often  decorated  with 
flags. 

We  saw  a  good  many  evidences  of  "moonshine" 
in  those  hills;  and  it  was  interesting  to  see  how  well 
two  uproarious  citizens,  who  shared  a  horse  between 
them,  on  their  way  to  the  "co'thouse"  managed  to 
keep  their  balance.  Occasionally,  a  passing  friend 
would  lend  a  staying  hand,  but  for  the  most  part 
they  swayed  about  and  fell  all  over  each  other 
though  never  once  quite  off  their  horse. 

"Moonshine"  and  partisan  politics  make  a  pretty 
deadly  mixture,  and  it  was  not  very  long  after  that 
day  in  the  hills  before  the  inevitable  explosion  took 
place.  When  we  arrived  at  the  town  the  hotel  was 
sold  out,  so  far  as  dinner  went,  and  my  guide  made 
his  way  to  a  small  bar  a  few  rods  away,  where,  he 
said,  we  could  get  a  bit  of  cheese,  at  any  rate.  When 
we  arrived  in  front  of  the  door  it  suddenly  flew  open 
and  two  men  came  dashing  out,  followed  by  an 
irate  host  flourishing  a  large  pistol.  We  subse- 
quently learned  the  two  customers  had  refused  to 
pay  for  their  drinks.  My  livery -stable  friend  walked 
up  to  the  bartender,  pushed  his  gun  to  one  side, 

shook  his  left  hand,  and  remarked,  "You  d d 

224 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

fool,  don't  you  know  better  'n  to  draw  a  gun  in  your 
own  place?" 

Then  he  went  in.  The  bartender  locked  the  door, 
as  some  people  outside  were  becoming  a  trifle 
excited,  and  helped  us  to  cheese  sandwiches  and 
very  bad  bottled  beer.  A  few  minutes  later  Goebel 
appeared  on  the  court-house  steps  and,  surrounded 
by  a  crowd,  part  friendly  and  part  distinctly  hostile, 
pluckily  made  his  plea. 

When  his  speech  was  over  he  retired  with  some 
lawyer  friends  into  the  courthouse.  This  was  an 
odd-looking  structure  built  on  old  classic  lines,  but 
the  Doric  columns  in  front  were  made  of  red  brick 
from  which  the  weather  had  stripped  ofif  much  of  the 
plaster  covering.  I  went  in  and  had  a  talk  with 
Goebel  and  his  friend  "Jack"  Chinn,  who,  by  the 
way,  was  with  him  when  he  was  shot. 

Goebel  had  not  a  particularly  intelligent-seeming 
or  attractive  personality,  but  he  had  courage.  The 
political  fight  he  was  in  was  an  extraordinarily  hot 
one,  and  he  told  me — this  I  can  never  forget,  in  view 
of  what  happened  later — that  he  firmly  believed  he 
would  be  shot  before  the  campaign  was  over.  He 
missed  only  by  very  little  the  time  fate  had  set  for 
his  assassination. 

The  crime  which  ended  Goebel's  career  has  ever 
since  been  shrouded  in  impenetrable  mystery.  All 
we  know  to  a  certainty  is  that  Goebel,  accompanied 
by  "Jack"  Chinn,  was  inside  the  Capitol  grounds, 
approaching  the  Statehouse  on  the  morning  of 
January  30,  1900,  when  a  shot  was  fired,  mortally 
wounding  him.     It  was  claimed  that  the  assassin 

225 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

fired  from  the  window  in  the  office  of  the  Secretary 
of  State,  Caleb  Powers,  in  the  Executive  Building, 
just  to  the  right  of  the  Statehouse.  But  the  real 
facts  of  the  case  are  so  clouded  by  political  preju- 
dice, perjury  and  fear  to  tell  the  truth  (with  plenty 
of  excuse  therefor),  that  not  until  the  day  of  judg- 
ment will  the  facts  be  known. 

Caleb  Powers,  who,  with  Governor  Taylor,  was 
accused  of  instigating  the  crime,  has  told  his  story 
in  a  book  written  in  prison.  If  one  can  believe  it, 
no  more  elaborate  plot  was  ever  woven  about  an 
innocent  man.  Youtsey,  the  man  who  confessed  to 
the  actual  shooting,  afterward  denied  it  under  oath 
and  swore  Howard  was  the  culprit.  Then,  according 
to  Powers,  he  made  three  different  confessions  in 
jail,  but  the  only  one  of  these  to  be  revealed  was  one 
dictated  by  Powers's  prosecutors.  Half  a  dozen 
other  gentlemen,  careless  of  their  oaths,  gave  testi- 
mony, repudiated  it  later  on,  and  were  prosecuted 
for  perjury  or  left  to  their  own  devices,  according  to 
the  sweet  will  or  political  affinities  of  the  prosecutor. 
Altogether,  the  shot  that  laid  Goebel  low  threw  the 
government  of  a  great  state  entirely  out  of  equilib- 
rium for  six  years.  It  is  probable  also  that  it  shook 
out,  in  the  end,  a  good  deal  that  was  corrupt  and 
which  it  required  a  convulsion  to  get  rid  of. 

Goebel  himself  was  a  commonplace  person,  so 
far  as  I  could  judge  on  a  very  short  acquaintance — 
a  practical  politician  with  little  interest  in  anything 
beyond  the  success  of  party;  yet  he  was  the  center 
of  a  series  of  dramatic  incidents  worthy  of  the 
border  warfare  chronicled  by  Walter  Scott. 

226 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

All  through  his  canvass,  plots  against  his  life 
were  hatching  about  him,  and  when  the  election 
was  over  hostile  horsemen  from  the  hills,  with  rifles 
slung  across  their  saddles,  openly  paraded  the 
streets  of  Frankfort. 

One  gentleman  who  was  arrested  on  suspicion  after 
the  shooting  had  three  revolvers  and  a  knife  concealed 
about  him.  His  explanation,  that  they  were  for  self- 
protection,  was  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course. 

A  few  mornings  after  listening  to  GoebeFs  speech 
I  got  up  at  daybreak  in  order  to  catch  the  early- 
morning  train  from  Frankfort.  I  met  "Jack" 
Chinn  and  my  livery-stable  friend  in  the  early  dawn, 
making  for  the  bar. 

"Come  and  have  a  drink,"  was  their  hospitable 
invitation.  "No,  thanks,"  I  replied.  "I  haven't 
had  my  breakfast." 

"Plenty  of  time  to  get  drunk  and  sober  before 
breakfast,"  was  the  cheerful  reply  of  Mr.  Chinn. 

As  they  turned  away,  a  Northern  man  who  had 
overheard  the  conversation  said  to  me,  "They 
drink  between  breaths  down  here!" 

We  are  often  told  that  work  on  a  newspaper  makes 
a  cynic  of  almost  anyone.  This  has  not  been  my 
experience  of  newspaper  men.  Only  lately  there 
passed  away  my  grand  old  friend  "Marse  Henry," 
full  of  hearty  likes  and  dislikes,  beliefs  and  dis- 
beliefs— joyous  alike  in  his  attacks  on  his  political 
opponents  and  in  the  support  of  his  friends. 

As  old  Michel  Montaigne  said  long  ago  and 
Benjamin  Franklin  said  later,  "He  who  has  drained 

227 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

the  full  cup  of  life  must  not  grumble  at  a  few  dregs 
at  the  bottom,  but  cheerfully  toss  them  down  with 
a  smile."  Henry  Watterson  lived  long  and,  to  the 
last,  turned  to  us  with  a  merry  laugh.  He  was  no 
cynic  looking  for  dregs  to  grumble  at.  If  you  had 
asked  "Marse  Henry"  the  names  of  able  newspaper 
writers,  I  think  he  would  have  put  that  of  Josiah 
K.  Ohl  near  the  head  of  the  list.  I  sat  in  the  edi- 
torial comicil  of  the  Herald  with  Mr.  Ohl  for  a  good 
many  years.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  lived  in 
the  Orient  for  a  long  time,  in  the  Philippines,  in 
Japan,  and  finally  for  six  years  in  China.  He  was  in 
Peking  during  the  Boxer  troubles  and  as  a  newspaper 
man  had  seen  every  phase  of  life  all  over  the  world. 
Yet  his  mind  was  far  from  cynical,  and  his  outlook 
on  life  as  sweet  as  that  of  a  child.  From  his  Chinese 
friends  in  high  places,  who  admired  and  trusted  him, 
he  had  acquired  a  curious  penetrating  faculty  of 
analyzing  motives,  but  it  never  shook  his  belief  in 
the  general  decency  and  honesty  of  his  fellow-men. 

He  had,  besides,  the  intuitive  news  sense  that 
makes  the  great  newspaper  man,  the  quick  and  sure 
faculty  of  divining  secret  negotiations  that  were 
going  on  behind  closed  doors  from  indications  that 
would  escape  less  subtle  perceptions.  As  a  case  in 
point,  it  happened  that  while  he  was  in  Peking 
secret  negotiations  were  going  on  between  the 
Japanese  and  Chinese  governments.  Mr.  Ohl  had 
known  in  Japan  the  diplomat  who  was  representing 
that  country  in  Peking,  and  was  pretty  well  informed 
through  his  Chinese  friends  as  to  what  was  being 
discussed — what  Japan  was  demanding  and  what 

228 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

China  was  endeavoring  to  avoid.  Finally,  one  day 
the  negotiations  were  absolutely  broken  off  and  the 
Japanese  envoy  returned  to  his  own  country. 
Several  months  later  Mr.  Ohl  was  wallving  down  a 
narrow  back  street  in  Peking  when  he  saw  the  same 
Japanese  diplomat  cross  the  way  and  take  a  side 
street  that  led  to  the  Chinese  government  offices. 
Mr.  Ohl  was  quite  certain  that  the  Japanese  had  not 
seen  him,  so  he  immediately  returned  to  his  own 
office  and  dictated  a  long  cable  to  the  New  York 
Herald,  giving  in  detail  the  final  agreement  arrived 
at  by  the  two  countries,  in  which  the  Japanese 
abandoned  the  objectionable  features  contained  in 
their  original  demands  on  the  Chinese  government. 

When  this  was  cabled  back  to  Peking  next  day 
the  Japanese  diplomat  came  to  see  Mr.  Ohl  in  his 
office,  admitted  that  the  cabled  story  was  correct, 
and  expressed  his  astonishment  at  the  accuracy  of 
its  contents.  Not  another  person  in  China  knew, 
the  diplomat  declared,  what  he  had  been  empowered 
by  his  government  to  yield  to  China. 

As  Mr.  Ohl  said,  in  telling  me  this  story  years  after- 
ward, he  knew  the  demands  of  the  Japanese  and  the 
limits  to  which  the  Chinese  government  would  go  to 
meet  them.  When  he  saw  the  Japanese  emissary  ap- 
proaching the  Chinese  Foreign  Office  by  a  back  door 
he  inferred  at  once  that  the  Japanese  had  yielded. 

This  is  diverging  a  long  waj^  from  what  I  started 
to  write  about — namely,  the  supposed  cynicism  of 
the  newspaper  world;  but  it  seemed  worth  while  to 
give  a  concrete  example  of  the  news  sense  raised 
to  the  nth  power.     The  only  cynics  I  ever  came 

229 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

across  in  newspaper  offices  were  a  few  very  young 
reporters  and  one  or  two  divorce  editors.  All  the 
rest  of  the  staff  of  a  great  newspaper  are  very 
human,  very  much  like  their  fellow-men. 

A  political  cartoonist  might  perhaps  have  some 
excuse  for  cynicism,  but  he  has  an  antidote  at  his 
hand  in  the  thought  that  the  sins  of  politicians, 
which  appear  so  enormous  from  the  publicity  they 
sometimes  get,  are  but  the  reflection  of  the  neglect 
by  the  average  citizen  of  his  civic  duties. 

The  citizen  of  to-day  who  holds  no  office  finds 
himself  in  about  the  position  of  the  busy  bee  who 
produces  the  honey,  only  to  have  it  taken  away 
from  him  when  the  comb  is  full.  Yet  if  he  is  not 
willing  to  continue  in  this  slavish  condition  it 
requires  only  courage  and  a  few  hard  fights  to 
remedy  the  present  evils. 

It  comes  within  the  cartoonist's  province  to  criti- 
cize the  acts  of  the  administration  as  they  occur, 
but  that  hardly  gives  him  license  to  draw  general 
conclusions.  We  are  too  near  the  scene  to  take  it 
all  in  now  in  one  great  perspective;  we  are  all 
suffering  too  severely  from  mistakes  and  extrava- 
gances, the  profiteering  by  unscrupulous  people, 
and  the  breaking  down  of  standards,  inevitable  as 
the  results  of  war,  to  place  all  the  blame  where  it 
belongs  or  to  give  all  the  credit  where  it  is  due. 
But  there  was  a  period  extending  from  the  seventh 
of  May,  1915,  to  April  third,  1917,  when  we  were 
not  at  war,  of  which  it  is  legitimate  for  us  to  speak 
and  which  is  now  far  enough  away  for  us  to  get  of 
it  a  clear  view. 

^30 


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ivi^ ^   ,  .' 


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y 


EXPLAINING  MUCH 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Up  to  the  day  the  Lusitania  was  sunk  Mr. 
Wilson  could  plead  much  in  extenuation  of  our 
attitude  in  respect  to  the  Great  War  then  going  on, 
as  James  Gordon  Bennett  so  truly  said,  "between 
civilization  and  savagery."  It  was  Mr.  Wilson's 
claim  that  there  should  be  some  great  neutral  power 
to  help  the  warring  nations  to  a  just  peace.  This 
was  not  precisely  the  attitude  of  the  Good  Samaritan, 
but  it  was  a  much  safer  one. 

Then  came  the  greatest  crime  of  all  maritime  his- 
tory. No  description  will  ever  be  necessary  in 
referring  to  it.    The  one  word  Lusitania  is  sufficient. 

Within  a  week  after  that  great  ship  was  ruthlessly 
sunk  with  its  precious  freight  of  men  and  women 
and  children  IVIr.  Wilson,  aided  by  the  Machiavel- 
lian Von  Bernstorff,  was  busy  casting  a  wet  blanket 
over  the  outburst  of  patriotic  wrath  of  the  American 
people.  It  is  my  firm  belief  that  a  call  to  arms  while 
that  righteous  indignation  was  at  its  first  fierce  heat 
would  have  made  impossible  the  plots  and  outrages 
which  followed  and  which  continued  until  we 
declared  a  state  of  war  to  exist  which  had  in  fact 
existed  for  nearly  two  years. 

A  catalogue  of  the  ensuing  outrages  is  too  sickening 
to  be  recorded.  Let  me  only  give  from  memory  a 
partial  list  of  the  passenger  ships  sunk,  each  crime 
followed  by  a  haggling  correspondence  between  the 
American  administration  and  the  assassins. 

Lusitania^  Arabic,  Hespei'ian,  Ancona,  Yasaha 
Mam,  Ville  de  Ciotat,  Petrolite,  Persia,  Sussex, 
Marian,  Arabia. 

This  is  not  all  by  any  means,  but,  as  Mr.  Shake- 

231 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

speare  said,  "it  will  serve."  Let  us  give  credit 
where  it  is  possible  to  the  members  of  the  adminis- 
tration after  we  entered  the  war.  They  will  need  it 
when  history's  great  balance  is  completed  in  years 
to  come. 

As  I  look  back  over  those  two  years  before  we 
entered  the  war,  it  is  with  a  deep  feeling  of  thank- 
fulness that  Von  Bernstorff  got  no  aid  or  comfort 
in  his  business  of  pulling  wool  over  American  eyes, 
from  the  cartoons  in  the  New  York  Herald. 

The  files  of  the  Herald  will  show  that  every  turn 
and  twist  of  that  slippery  diplomatist  was  recorded 
in  pictorial  form.  His  own  book,  recently  published, 
on  his  relations  with  the  American  government  dur- 
ing the  period  preceding  our  entry  into  the  war 
corroborates  every  cartoon  I  made  relating  to  his 
activities  in  America. 

I  am  particular  to  make  this  record  here  because 
at  the  time  the  cartoons  in  question  were  appearing 
I  was  constantly  being  admonished  that  the  admin- 
istration had  secret  sources  of  information  as  to  the 
intentions  of  the  German  government  which  nobody 
knew  anything  about  and  which  would  put  an 
entirely  different  interpretation  on  the  acts  and 
words  of  Von  Bernstorff,  Boy-Ed,  Von  Papen, 
Doctor  Dernburg,  et  al.,  and  would  show  how  all 
these  gentle  souls  were  striving  with  Mr.  Wilson  to 
bring  about  the  peace  of  the  world. 

If  we  must  not  attempt  to  foretell  the  verdict  of 
posterity  on  the  men  and  events  of  to-day,  we  can 
at   least   point   out   one   curious   fallacy    which   is 

232 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

indulged  in  by  a  class  of  inveterate  hero- worshipers. 
Without  mentioning  the  name,  which  imagination 
will  easily  supply,  it  is  constantly  asserted  because 
such-and-such  discreditable  things  were  asserted  in 
regard  to  Abraham  Lincoln  and  are  no  whit  worse 
than  some  of  the  accusations  against  So-and-so: 
Therefore,  So-and-so  will,  in  the  verdict  of  posterity, 
be  set  up  on  a  pedestal  as  high  as  the  martyred 
President  of  Civil  War  times.  The  logic  is  quite 
equal  to  the  old  proposition  "a  dog  is  a  quadruped; 
a  horse  is  a  quadruped;  therefore  a  dog  is  a  horse." 
But  this  assertion  is  made  so  constantly  and  in  such 
good  faith  that  perhaps  it  could  be  carried  a  little 
farther:  Lincoln  was  accused  of  many  discreditable 
acts;  So-and-so  was  accused  of  many  discreditable 
acts;  therefore.  So-and-so  is  as  great  as  Lincoln. 
William  Hohenzollern  has  been  accused  of  still 
more  discreditable  acts.  Therefore,  Mr.  Hohen- 
zollern is  greater  than  either  Lincoln  or  So-and-so! 


233 


M 


CHAPTER  XIV 

'ANY  of  the  younger  generation  of  illustrators 
ask  me  from  time  to  time  for  details  of  the 
black-and-white  art  when  it  began  to  leave 
off  its  swaddling  clothes  and  stand  on  its  own  good 
American  feet.  They  have  shown  a  deep  interest 
in  any  information  I  can  give  them  about  how  the 
great  advance  in  the  art  of  illustrating  during  the 
'seventies  and  'eighties  was  accomplished.  For 
that  reason  it  may  be  well  to  devote  a  good  part  of 
a  chapter  to  that  period,  and  I  should  advise  anyone 
not  interested  in  the  subject  to  skip  it  entirely. 

Before  the  'seventies  there  was  little  real  effort 
on  the  part  of  American  illustrators  to  interpret 
nature.    F.  O.  C.  Darley  was  a  man  of  great  talent, 
y  but  only  occasionally  did  he  tear  himself  away  from 

the  old  conventional  methods.  Edwin  Forbes  came 
nearer  to  a  true  and  original  style  of  drawing,  but 
there  was  no  general  advance  until  Abbey  and  Rein- 
hart  set  the  pace.  I  verily  believe,  however,  that 
the  first  great  impulse  in  the  new  American  art  of 
illustration  came  from  Winslow  Homer.  WTien  I 
went  to  Franklin  Square  an  occasional  drawing  on 
wood  still  came  in  for  IIar'per''s  Weekly  from  his 
hand.  When  one  considers  how  totally  different 
was  the  style  and  mode  of  thought  of  Homer  from 

234 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Abbey  or  Reinhart  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  they 
were  greatly  influenced  by  him.  Nevertheless,  he 
had  one  quality  which  he  held  up  before  them  and 
which  made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression  on  the 
work  of  both  of  them.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  foundation 
on  which  their  art  was  built.  This  was  the  quality 
of  sincerity.  Winslow  Homer  was  perhaps  the  first 
American  illustrator  to  break  away  from  the  "slip- 
pery" school  which  balked  at  the  corners  in  drawing 
and  slid  with  clever  ignorance  over  every  difficulty. 

Homer  had  an  artistic  sight  that  was  too  honest 
to  shirk  difficulties.  He  went  straight  to  Nature 
for  his  inspiration,  and  so,  in  her  infinite  variety, 
found  new  pictures.  Abbey  and  Reinhart  were 
both  impressed  with  the  rugged  truth  of  his  work, 
and  if  one  looks  at  their  early  illustrations  their 
emancipation  from  the  conventional  style  of  work 
of  that  day  can  readily  be  seen.  It  is  a  very  proud 
fact  for  an  illustrator  to  reflect  upon,  that  one  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  painting,  recognized  the  world 
over,  began  as  a  member  of  his  craft. 

It  will  be  of  interest  to  any  artist  who  may  chance 
to  read  this  to  learn  what  Homer's  drawings  were 
lilve.  I  remember  one  particularly,  a  drawing  on 
wood.  The  boxwood  color  is  of  a  light,  warm  tone 
and  this  Homer  used  as  his  lightest  gray,  deepening 
it  with  a  wash  of  India  ink  and  painting  in  one  or 
two  high  lights  with  white.  There  were  not  more 
than  two  or  three  tones  in  the  picture — just  broad, 
flat  washes  and  uncompromising  outlines.  All  that 
was  there  was  true,  but  nothing  unnecessary  or 
fussy  found  a  place  in  the  drawing.     His  method 

£35 


A    WORLD,   WORTH    tVHILE 

was  not  unlike  that  of  the  Japanese  artist,  Hiro- 
shigi.  The  subject  was  a  young  farmer  boy  and  a 
girl  in  a  field,  a  few  trees  in  the  background.  But 
that  simple  picture  comes  up  before  me  now  strong 
and  clear,  because  of  its  concentrated  and  clarified 
truth. 

As  I  have  pointed  out  before,  we  had  to  do  a  great 
deal  in  the  way  of  news  pictures  in  those  days,  which 
is  now  done  by  the  camera.  This  had  its  advantages 
and  disadvantages.  It  sent  us  out  with  our  sketch- 
books after  material  and  made  us  quick  observers — 
reporters  with  the  pencil.  Reinhart  used  to  say  "a 
line  made  out  of  doors  means  as  much  as  a  dozen 
in  the  studio,"  and  that  is  a  true  saying  if  the  man 
out  of  doors  is  a  conscientious  seeker  after  truth 
and  hasn't  fallen  into  conventional  ways  of  repre- 
sentation. Another  advantage  in  making  news 
drawings  was  the  privilege  of  working  on  the  same 
wood  block  with  a  master  of  his  craft. 

The  great  drawback  to  all  that  was  the  pace  we 
had  to  keep  up  when  once  the  drawing  was  started. 
Many  a  night  I  have  worked  straight  through  from 
dark  until  dawn,  for  after  our  work  was  completed 
the  engraver  had  his  still  to  do.  It  would  have  been 
very  easy  for  us  to  give  up  high  ideals  and  fall  into 
a  mechanical  grind  of  turning  out  our  work  in  the 
easiest  and  most  conventional  way  possible,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  inspiration  *'Ned"  Abbey  shed 
like  rays  from  the  sun  in  the  Harpers'  office.  Mr. 
Parsons,  too,  the  art  superintendent,  kept  before 
us  the  example  of  his  own  great  belief  in  going  to 
nature  for  inspiration. 

236 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Abbey's  earnestness  had  as  many  sides  to  it  as  a 
well-cut  diamond.  He  was  just  as  enthusiastic 
about  play  as  he  was  about  work.  When  he  worked 
he  put  every  ounce  of  energy  there  was  in  him  into 
his  endeavor,  and  kept  it  up  until  suddenly  he  could 
concentrate  no  longer;  then  he  would  go  out  to  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  turn  two  or  three  of  the 
cleanest,  most  beautiful  handsprings  I  ever  saw, 
and  sit  down  at  his  work  again  as  though  nothing 
had  happened. 

Once  he  rigged  up  a  trapeze  in  the  art  department 
and  was  up  aloft,  busily  "skinning  the  cat,"  when 
one  of  the  firm,  who  always  wore  a  high  silk  hat, 
happened  along.  It  has  always  been  a  matter  of 
regret  to  me  that  I  was  absent  that  day  and  did  not 
see  what  happened;  but  the  tradition  in  the  art 
department  has  always  been  that  the  silk  hat  sud- 
denly traversed  the  length  of  the  room  and  fell  to 
the  floor  in  a  shocking  condition.  At  any  rate,  the 
trapeze  was  missing  next  day.  Abbey  was  very 
fond  of  the  theater  and  I  believe  nobody  ever  enjoyed 
the  old  Harrigan  and  Hart  shows  more  than  he. 
Ned  Harrigan  studied  people  at  first  hand  and 
Abbey  recognized  the  truth  of  his  types.  In  con- 
trast to  this  was  Abbey's  love  for  the  musty  facts  of 
archaeology,  which  he  pursued  in  old  bookshops,  old 
houses,  or  wherever  such  knowledge  was  to  be 
found. 

I  am  setting  down  these  facts,  which  are  appar- 
ently unrelated,  to  give  a  little  idea  of  what  there 
was  in  the  way  of  background  for  Abbey's  art, 
what  manner  of  man  it  was  whose  influence  was  so 

237 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

great  on  the  fellows  who  came  in  contact  with  him. 
But  there  was  yet  one  quality  which  is  the  hardest 
of  all  to  describe — his  strange  aloofness  from  the 
world  he  loved.  He  was  the  soul  of  kindness  and 
generosity,  would  take  time  and  trouble  beyond 
anyone  I  ever  met  to  teach  a  willing  mind,  and  yet, 
while  he  was  joking  and  laughing  with  me  or  helping 
me  to  solve  some  problem  of  drawing,  I  always  had 
a  feeling  that  he  was  some  strange  being  who  had 
dropped  down  beside  me  from  another  world  or 
another  time  and  that  he  might  as  quickly  disappear. 

With  an  extraordinary  personality  such  as  this 
to  give  force  to  advanced  ideas  in  illustration, 
black-and-white  art  developed  with  astonishing 
rapidity.  Men  came  up  almost  overnight  who  had 
discovered  the  ever-living  truth  that  Nature  turns 
a  new  face,  presents  a  new  picture,  to  each  one  who 
faithfully  studies  her. 

Howard  Pyle  saw  her  in  one  phase;  Smedley,  in 
many  respects,  went  closer  and  got  a  truer  view 
than  any;  Frost  saw  with  more  verity  when  he 
looked  at  the  young  animals  playing  in  the  fields  or 
the  tramp  basking  in  the  sun.  Reinhart  saw  the 
everyday  people  of  his  own  time  clearly  and  sanely, 
and  in  that  no  man  has  surpassed  him. 

About  this  time  another  man  of  remarkable 
subtlety  of  sight  came  up  in  American  illustration 
— Robert  Blum.  To  him  was  due  a  little  different 
type  of  black-and-white,  not  quite  so  virile  or  down- 
right, but  having  a  quality  of  suggesting,  rather 
than  representing,  which  made  Blum's  drawings  a 
delight  to  an  artist's  eye.     One  of  the  men  of  that 

238 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

d'dy  whose  great  talents  were  on  similar  lines  was 
Alfred  Brennan. 

John  A.  Mitchell  used  to  say  he  would  wager  his 
hat  that,  if  he  piled  up  one  hundred  drawings  by  the 
best  men  in  illustration  with  half  a  dozen  of  Bren- 
nan's  sifted  in  among  them,  any  artist  who  looked 
over  the  lot  would  invariably  stop  when  he  came  to 
a  "Brennan."  He  had  tried  it  and  the  test  never 
failed. 

I  am  not  going  to  speak  of  the  men  who  came 
just  a  little  later  into  the  field.  They  and  their 
work,  much  of  it  well  worthy  of  the  high  esteem  in 
which  it  is  held  here  and  abroad,  are  too  well  known 
to  need  any  description.  One  little  incident  which 
happened  on  a  recent  visit  of  mine  to  Philadelphia 
is,  however,  worth  the  telling. 

A  good  many  people  will  recall  a  series  of  maga- 
zine drawings  which  appeared  some  years  ago  of 
scenes  in  the  streets  of  London,  by  Joseph  Pennell. 
I  had  heard  that  a  number  of  the  original  drawings, 
all  in  pen-and-ink,  were  in  the  possession  of  a  Phila- 
delphia art  dealer.  I  met  Pennell  and  asked  him  if 
it  would  be  possible  to  get  a  glimpse  of  them.  He 
very  kindly  accompanied  me  to  the  gallery  of  the 
dealer  and  we  were  taken  to  an  inner  room,  where  a 
movable  section  of  paneled  wall  concealed  a  large 
safe.  From  its  fireproof  interior  the  precious  draw- 
ings were  brought  to  us.  I  could  not  help  thinking 
how  little  young  Joe  Pennell  could  have  imagined, 
when  he  took  those  very  drawings  into  the  art 
department  of  Harper's  or  the  Century,  that  he 
would  some  day  see  them  brought  out  from  a  fire- 

239 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

proof  vault,  treated  with  all  the  respect  that  might 
have  been  paid  to  a  portfolio  full  of  government 
bonds. 

All  of  which  reminds  me  that  in  the  art  depart- 
ment at  Harpers'  there  used  to  hang  a  picture  by 
Thomas  Nast  called  "Small  potatoes  before  the 
Supreme  Court,"  in  which  he  as  a  tiny  figure  stands 
with  a  laurel  wreath  beside  him  (which  had  fallen 
off  his  head)  before  his  judges,  Charles  Parsons, 
George  William  Curtis,  and  Fletcher  Harper.  That 
drawing  expressed  the  feelings  of  every  artist  I 
ever  knew  who  brought  in  a  drawing  to  be  judged. 

I  have  forgotten  the  exact  date  when  the  Art 
Students'  League  was  started,  but  it  was  in  the 
'seventies  and  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the 
development  of  the  American  school  of  illustration. 
Perhaps  the  sketch  class,  which  became  a  part  of 
the  league  but  was  of  earlier  origin,  was  of  more 
service  in  this  direction  than  the  more  conventional 
classes  where  the  usual  drawings  from  the  plaster 
cast  and  from  the  nude  figure  were  made. 

In  the  sketch  class  we  posed  for  one  another  and 
once  a  week  had  a  little  exhibition  of  sketches  on 
subjects  chosen  and  given  out  to  the  class.  The 
democratic  methods  of  this  little  class,  and  our 
custom  of  meeting  once  a  week  at  the  studio  of  any 
one  of  us  who  was  fortunate  enough  to  have  a 
studio,  set  us  to  thinking  and  working  together  on 
new  lines.  I  remember  most  gratefully  that  Mr.  F. 
S.  Church  took  a  little  sketch,  which  I  had  pinned 
up  on  the  wall  at  one  of  our  weekly  "exhibitions," 
and  showed  it  to  Mr.  Parsons  at  Franklin  Square, 

240 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

and  that  this  kind  action  on  his  part  resulted  in  my 
going  to  work  for  the  Harper  pubHcations  a  few 
months  later.  Out  of  these  weekly  meetings,  where, 
when  we  felt  very  rich,  we  had  crackers  and  cheese 
and  soft  drinks,  grew  the  Salmagundi  Club,  now 
mostly  a  club  of  painters,  but  in  the  days  of  its 
infancy  the  rallying  point  of  the  young  illustrators 
as  well. 

Mr.  W.  H.  Shelton  has  written  a  most  entertaining 
history  of  the  club,  which  began  as  "The  Sketch 
Class,"  became  in  1877  the  "Salmagundi  Sketch 
Club"  and  is  now  known  as  "The  Salmagundi," 
much  as  we  speak  of  "The  Century"  or  the  "Union 
League." 

From  Mr.  Shelton's  book  it  may  be  learned  that 
of  the  illustrators  Frost,  Kemble,  Taylor,  Kelly, 
Burns,  Pyle,  and  Abbey  were  all  members  at  one 
time  or  another.  Many  painters  of  national  repu- 
tation were  also  graduates  of  the  old  sketch  class. 
Under  a  camouflage  of  bohemianism  a  great  wealth 
of  artistic  feeling  was  fostered  by  that  little  band 
of  young  fellows,  which  underlies  the  skillful  drafts- 
manship of  the  artists  of  to-day. 

Not  often  does  the  combination  occur  of  a  won- 
derful knowledge  of  technic  and  the  capacity  for 
great  feeling  and  character,  but  nature  produced 
that  combination  for  once  in  the  person  of  William 
T.  Smedley. 

In  the  pictures  Smedley  made  for  a  story  by 
Thomas  A.  Janvier,  called  "The  Uncle  of  an  Angel," 
the    combination    shines    forth    in    its    perfection. 

241 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

But  that  perfection  was  not  born  too  joyously. 
I  have  seen  Hne  drawings  by  Smedley  which  looked 
as  though  they  had  floated  off  the  end  of  his  pen 
like  a  bubble  from  a  pipe,  yet  a  closer  examination 
showed  where  he  had  almost  scraped  through  to  the 
back  of  the  cardboard.  The  paper  was  thin  when 
he  got  through — but  the  drawing  wasn't. 

We  always  knew  that  if  Smedley  ever  undertook 
to  paint  he  would  become  a  master  of  that  medium. 
His  black-and-white  work  had  the  painter's  quality. 
The  illustrations  he  made  for  a  story  by  Kirk 
Munroe,  Dorymates,  were  as  truly  paintings  as 
though  they  had  been  done  in  color.  No  American 
illustrator,  to  my  mind,  ever  equaled  him  in  the 
delineation  of  elderly  people.  You  seemed  to  see 
in  them  all  the  experience  of  life — everything  that 
had  worn  and  torn  and  refined  them. 

Smedley  was  a  man  who  never  was  satisfied  with 
his  own  productions.  Not  that  any  really  good  man 
ever  is,  but  with  him  the  feeling  was  stronger  than 
in  anyone  else  I  ever  knew,  and  it  accounted  largely 
for  the  fact  that  his  work  grew  in  importance  and 
merit  up  to  the  very  last.  I  say  the  last,  for  as  I 
write  these  lines  the  bells  are  tolling  for  his  final 
rest.  In  days  past  William  T.  Smedley  held  his 
place  as  one  of  the  foremost  illustrators  of  America, 
and  to-day  his  death  is  deplored  as  ending  the  career 
of  a  portrait  painter  of  the  highest  distinction. 

The  name  of  C.  S.  Reinhart,  or  Stanley  Reinhart, 
as  his  friends  called  him,  has  appeared  frequently 
in  these  sketches.  I  think  he  was  the  first  American 
to  make  pictures  of  contemporary  life  in  this  coun- 

242 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

try  whose  work  was  recognized  abroad  as  of  a  high 
order.  Reinhart's  everyday  people  were  always 
lifted,  by  some  secret  process  of  his  own,  away  from 
the  commonplace.  That  was  a  gift  he  shared 
with  Smedley.  They  both  drew  pictures  of  the 
people  we  see  every  day;  we  recognize  them  all — 
there  is  nothing  missing — yet  perhaps  there  is 
something  added,  and  that  is  the  beautiful  art  of 
the  telling. 

Drawing  came  much  easier  to  Reinhart  than  to 
Smedley.  He  was  a  very  quick  and  accurate  ob- 
server and  his  facility  was  remarkable.  Smedley 
had  to  strive  hard  for  all  he  got,  but  he  went  down 
deeper  into  the  hearts  of  his  characters  than  Rein- 
hart.  Yet  each  gave  a  true  picture  of  the  life  of  the 
people  who  made  up  the  world  about  him,  and  each 
surrounded  them  with  an  atmosphere  which  made 
them  interesting.  We  used  to  look  for  a  new  drawing 
in  Harper's  Weekly  by  Reinhart  or  a  new  series  of 
his  in  the  Magazine  as  an  event.  His  pictures  of 
Gambetta  and  other  celebrities  in  the  French 
Chamber  of  Deputies  were  talked  about  for  years, 
and  yet  they  were  the  simplest  sketches  possible, 
with  not  a  superfluous  line  anywhere.  Reinhart's 
gift  of  close  observation  served  him  in  many  ways. 
I  have  heard  him  entertain  a  company  for  half  an 
hour  with  an  account  of  how  he  hesitated  over  the 
question  of  wearing  a  dinner  coat  or  full  dress  at  a 
bachelor  dinner.  Was  it  Stella  who  said,  when 
Dean  Swift  had  written  a  poem  in  praise  of  another 
young  woman,  "Oh,  the  Dean  could  write  charm- 
ingly about  a  broomstick!".?    Reinhart  could  make 

243 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

entertaining   stories   out   of   quite   as   unpromising 
material. 

It  was  in  1877,  or  a  little  later,  that  I  first  remem- 
ber a  tall,  broad-shouldered  young  man,  a  different 
type  from  anyone  I  bad  met  among  the  artists — 
rather  the  calm  type  of  the  scholar.  He  had  sent  in 
a  drawing  in  deep  tones.  The  whole  story  of  the 
drawing  was  in  the  effect  of  a  lantern  lighting  up  a 
group  of  men  at  a  life-saving  station  on  the  coast. 
It  had  power,  and  Charles  Parsons  saw  that  instantly. 
I  remember  his  calling  me  into  his  office  to  see  the 
drawing,  telling  me  it  was  by  a  new  man,  Howard 
Pyle. 

Probably  no  man  had  a  more  direct  influence  on 
the  younger  men  and  women  among  the  illustrators 
than  Pyle.  But  admirable  as  was  his  individual 
work,  I  cannot  say  that  his  influence  was  altogether 
helpful.  Pyle  had  numerous  pupils  under  his  in- 
struction, and  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  he 
failed  to  teach  most  of  them  the  valuable  side  of 
his  art. 

The  stronger  ones,  of  course,  developed  a  style 
of  their  own,  but  through  all  their  work  there  runs 
a  Howard  Pyle  convention.  The  weaker  ones  got 
nothing  but  the  convention,  and  their  work,  being 
multiplied  in  the  magazines,  served  only  to  make 
Pyle's  own  work  look  hackneyed.  If  any  general 
conclusion  can  be  drawn  from  all  this,  it  is  that  a 
man  of  great  individuality  often  makes  an  indifferent 
teacher.  His  pupils  are  so  dazzled  by  his  outstanding 
characteristics  that  they  lose  their  own  view  of 
nature  and  give  us  no  new  interpretation. 

244 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

In  looking  over  an  old  file  of  Harper's  Weekly  the 
other  day  I  came  across  a  picture  of  Colonial  life 
under  which  was  printed,  "Drawn  by  E.  A.  Abbey 
from  a  sketch  by  Howard  Pyle."  That  was  before 
Pyle's  wings  were  strong  enough  to  enable  him  to 
fly  alone.  It  was  in  the  days  when  most  of  the 
work  was  drawn  on  wood,  and  Pyle  never  was  suc- 
cessful in  working  on  the  block. 

When  I  first  met  Frederic  Remington  he  was 
already  known  the  world  over  for  his  pictures  of 
Western  life.  He  recalled  to  me  a  little  sketch  on 
wrapping  paper,  all  scrambled  up  in  a  small  envelope, 
which  he  had  mailed  to  the  Harpers  some  years 
before  from  out  in  Wyoming. 

He  felt  he  was  taking  a  long  chance.  He  had 
never  done  anything  for  publication,  but  the  sketch 
was  accepted. 

I  listened  to  his  story  with  keen  interest,  for  I 
remembered  with  how  much  pleasure  I  had  made  a 
drawing  on  wood  from  that  little  crumpled  sketch, 
and  I  recalled  then  having  admired  it  greatly.  But 
I  had  forgotten  the  entire  circumstance  long  before 
the  name  of  Frederic  Remington  meant  anything 
to  me. 

"Yes,"  said  Remington,  "it  was  you  who  intro- 
duced me  to  the  public.  That  was  my  first  appear- 
ance and  I  was  mighty  glad  I  fell  into  the  hands  of 
an  artist  who  knew  a  cowboy  saddle  and  a  Western 
horse." 

When  they  dig  into  the  ruins  of  some  American 
museum  in  the  year  a.d.  4000  or  5000  some  one  will 
find  fragments  of  wonderful  little  bronze  horses  in 

245 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

fiery  action.  They  will  speculate  on  the  cowboy 
period  of  American  antiquity  as  shown  in  Reming- 
ton's bronzes.  Doubtless  the  legend  of  the  gunmen 
of  New  York  will  be  fused  with  the  gun  toters  of  the 
plains,  and  the  details  of  "Gyp  the  Blood's"  equip- 
ment will  be  found  in  a  cowpuncher  on  horseback 
by  Frederic  Remington. 

A  stranger  meeting  Remington  for  the  first  time 
would  be  likely  to  come  away  with  the  impression 
that  he  had  met  a  man  of  blood  and  iron — his  world 
divided  into  two  classes,  those  who  were  to  kill 
and  those  to  be  killed.  But  to  one  who  knew  the 
real  Remington  this  was  simply  funny.  Before  the 
Spanish-American  War  he  used  to  talk  of  "blood! 
blood !  and  more  blood ! "  but  a  very  brief  experience 
in  Cuba  showed  him  that  he  shared  with  the  ten- 
derest  hearted  a  hatred  of  the  sight  of  wounds  and 
suffering. 

It  was  the  picturesqueness  of  battles  which  had 
misled  him  into  an  imaginary  love  for  "broken 
heads  and  bloody  bones."  To  the  end  he  was  a  big, 
overgrown  boy,  generous,  kindly,  and  full  of  the 
charm  of  "make-believe." 

Along  in  the  'seventies  an  occasional  big,  strong 
drawing  came  out  by  a  new  man — Thure  de  Thul- 
strup.  I  doubt  if  in  this  day  we  realize  how  much  of 
the  solidity  of  the  best  American  illustration  is  due 
to  the  pioneer  work  of  De  Thulstrup.  He  main- 
tained a  robust  and  uncompromising  technic  when 
much  of  the  best  American  work  was  just  a  little 
too  fine-spun. 

246 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

One  might  object  sometimes  to  the  harsh  planes 
which  clashed  with  one  another  in  his  work;  but 
one  had  at  the  same  time  to  acknowledge  the  solid 
truth  underlying  them.  His  influence  was  great 
and  lasting. 

It  was  in  the  'seventies  that  little  Charley  Graham 
dropped  down  from  the  scenic  painter's  bridge  and 
climbed  up  the  corkscrew  stairs  of  Franklin  Square. 
Graham  never  quite  broke  loose  from  the  scenic 
foreground;  but  if  one  will  but  pass  over  the  in- 
evitable tree  and  rock  in  the  foreground  of  his  pic- 
tures of  the  Sierras  and  the  Rockies  one  must  admit 
that  no  truer  pictures  were  ever  made  of  the  moun- 
tains in  all  their  naked  ruggedness. 

A  little  later  W.  P.  Snyder  made  a  series  of  draw- 
ings for  Harper  s  Magazine  which  went  behind  the 
scenes  in  the  production  of  a  great  magazine. 

He  revealed  the  engraver  at  work,  the  man  who 
took  the  proofs  on  an  old  hand  press,  the  great 
power  presses,  the  typesetter  at  his  case — in  fact, 
all  that  great  machine  which  reproduces  the  work  of 
writer  and  artist. 

I  remember  Snyder  never  appreciated  what 
remarkable  drawings  these  were.  He  always  imag- 
ined that  because  the  subjects  were  mechanical  his 
drawings  were  mechanical  also. 

One  would  forget  a  series  of  photographs  of  sim- 
ilar subjects  in  a  day;  but  these  drawings  have  held 
a  strong  place  in  my  memory  and  admiration  for 
many  years. 

No  record  of  American  illustration  would  be  com- 
plete without  some  recognition  of  the  part  William 

247 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Glackens  had  In  its  development.  He  and  Ernest 
Fuhr  were  responsible  a  few  years  ago  for  pen  draw- 
ings, turned  out  hurriedly  for  publication  in  a  daily 
paper,  which  were  quite  equal  and  sometimes 
superior  to  anything  appearing  in  the  magazines 
at  that  time.  I  have  been  particular  to  point  out' 
that  the  work  of  these  two  men  appeared  in  a 
newspaper,  for  no  daily  paper  before  or  since  ever 
printed  such  an  extraordinary  series  of  pen  draw- 
ings. Since  that  time  we  have  learned  to  think  of 
Glackens  as  a  painter  and  Fuhr  as  a  successful 
illustrator,  but  in  those  days  they  were  establishing 
quite  distinguished  styles  of  their  own  in  the  diffi- 
cult art  of  pen-and-ink. 

It  would  be  easy  and  perhaps  interesting  to  trace 
the  manner  of  each  to  its  source.  Glackens,  it 
could  readily  be  seen,  was  first  taught  to  see  nature 
by  the  work  of  Charles  Keene.  I  think  every  great 
draftsman  sees  Nature  first  through  the  eyes  of  some 
other  man,  until  by  and  by  Nature  reveals  herself  to 
him  direct. 

Vierge,  certainly  one  of  the  most  original  of  all 
pen  draftsmen,  got  his  early  inspiration  from  the 
work  of  Fortuny.  And  that  reminds  me  to  say  that 
Fuhr  followed  rather  in  the  school  of  Vierge;  and 
splendid  use  he  made  of  it,  developing  a  style  pe- 
culiarly adapted  to  pictures  of  scenes  under  our 
brilliant  American  skies  and  to  reproduction  by  the 
hasty  processes  of  a  daily  paper. 

The  work  of  May  Wilson  Preston  is  an  example 
of  a  fine  original  style,  now  wholly  her  own,  which 
I  venture  to  say  started  under  the  influence  of  the 

248 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

work  of  Charles  Keene  and  William  Glackens, 
quickened  by  a  fine  sense  of  humor  and  character. 
Frederick  Walker  undoubtedly  gave  Abbey,  in 
his  early  work,  a  strong  inspiration.  Seeing,  which 
would  appear  to  be  the  first  thing  a  man  with  an 
artist's  temperament  might  accomplish,  is  in  fact 
one  of  the  last.  Nature  is  so  vast  and  her  light  so 
blinding  that  we  can  see  her,  at  first,  only  through 
the  eyes  of  others. 

If  New  York  ever  apologized  for  anything — which 
it  doesn't — it  might  begin  by  abasing  itself  for  some 
of  its  monuments  and  a  number  of  its  churches. 
Instead  of  making  excuses  for  the  Halleck  monu- 
ment, the  Scott,  the  Sunset  Cox,  New  York  simply 
laughs  good-naturedly  at  anyone  who  becomes 
excited  over  these  iniquities. 

The  bronze  General  Bolivars  (numbers  one  and 
two)  have  become  classic  jokes,  and  as  I  happen  to 
know  of  an  expert  criticism  of  the  original  Bolivar 
on  horseback,  which  once  occupied  the  now  empty 
pedestal  on  a  hill  in  Central  Park  just  north  of  the 
Eightieth  Street  entrance,  I  give  it  for  the  sake  of 
true  art. 

An  old  horse  dealer,  who  brought  many  green 
country  horses  to  New  York  and  trained  them  in 
city  ways,  told  me  one  day,  after  poor  Bolivar  the 
First  and  his  charger  had  been  taken  down  from 
their  proud  pedestal,  that  he  very  much  regretted 
the  loss  of  that  remarkable  group. 

"Why,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  as  he  stroked  his 
long  white  side- whiskers,  "that  was  the  most  useful 

249 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

statue  in  the  Park !  When  I  had  a  green  horse  town- 
broke  so  he'd  go  under  the  'L'  nice  an'  quiet  and 
'd  pass  a  steam  roller  and  papers  blowin'  in  the 
street,  then  I'd  drive  him  into  the  Park  an'  round 
the  Bolivar  equestrian  statue;  and  if  he  didn't 
scare  at  Bolivar's  horse  he  wouldn't  scare  at  any- 
thing on  earth!" 

After  a  while  another  statue  of  General  Bolivar 
was  put  up  on  the  empty  pedestal.  It  was  not  an 
improvement,  apparently.  It  wouldn't  even  scare  a 
horse;  and  it  soon  galloped  off  to  the  scrap  heap  in 
the  wake  of  Bolivar  the  First.  I  believe  another 
Bolivar  statue  has  been  designed  and  cast;  but  my 
old  friend  the  horse  dealer  is  no  more.  We  may 
never  know  if  Bolivar  the  Third  has  the  supreme 
merits  of  the  original. 

New  York,  while  ignoring  her  homely,  badly 
designed,  and  insignificant  churches,  is  proud  of 
several  very  beautiful  and  characteristic  ones.  It 
pays  to  walk  over  from  Madison  and  Park  Avenues 
in  the  morning  and  watch  the  shadows  change  on 
St.  Thomas's.  There  is  a  beautiful  view  of  the 
Cathedral  from  just  west  of  Madison  Avenue  on 
Fifty-first  Street.  The  morning  sun  plays  over 
varied  forms  of  irregular  beauty  and  the  impression 
is  entirely  different  from  the  more  formal  and 
balanced  effect  of  the  two  spires  seen  from  in  front. 

Farther  down  on  Fifth  Avenue  is  a  little  church 
which  holds  a  very  personal  interest  for  me.  In 
this  bit  of  French  architecture  set  down  in  the 
middle  of  New  York  you  have  something  well  worth 
looking  at.     It  was  designed  in  the  oflSce  of  Mr. 

250 


S 


'^ 


-■yy 


"Pi 


THE  MOUNTAIN  PEOPLE 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Hunt,  but  I  am  very  sure  the  actual  drawings  were 
the  work  of  a  Httle  Frenchman  named  Caspar,  who 
was  employed  there.  I  saw  many  of  the  preliminary 
sketches  for  the  church  at  Mr.  Caspar's  house  with 
its  characteristics  as  built — the  flying  buttresses 
and  the  spire  springing  with  beautiful  diminishing 
proportions  directly  from  the  earth. 

The  finial  on  that  spire  was  a  sore  point  with 
Caspar.  He  always  claimed  to  have  designed  it  on 
a  much  larger  scale,  but  on  the  builder's  objection 
his  finial  was  vetoed.  The  carving  of  ornamental 
details  also  displeased  him,  and  Caspar  made  up  his 
mind  to  improve  the  popular  taste  by  producing 
terra-cotta  ornaments  of  superior  design  and  work- 
manship. To  this  end,  while  still  in  Mr.  Hunt's 
employ,  he  started  a  small  terra-cotta  factory  in 
Greenpoint  for  the  manufacture  of  artistic  archi- 
tectural ornaments.  He  associated  with  him  a 
sculptor,  Isaac  Broome,  who  was  an  excellent 
modeler  of  the  figure  and  of  classic  ornament, 
understood  ceramic  work,  could  fire  a  kiln  or  turn 
a  vase,  and  who  made  porcelain  ware  that  in  1876 
brought  the  Japanese  commissioners  from  the  Cen- 
tennial Exposition  to  his  studio.  He  could  cut 
marble  well  enough  to  reproduce  the  work  of  Olin 
Warner — to  that  great  sculptor's  satisfaction — could 
do  everything  under  the  sun,  it  seemed  to  me,  except 
carry  on  a  business.  He  and  Caspar  were  two 
"babes  in  the  woods"  when  it  came  to  ways  and 
means. 

For  the  sake  of  experience  in  modeling  and  plaster 
carving,  I  worked  with  these  two  men  for  nearly  a 

251 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

year  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  only  profits  made  by 
the  enterprise  were  made  by  me. 

Broome  had  Hved  many  years  abroad  in  Florence 
and  Paris,  and  little  Caspar  was  perhaps  the  last 
pupil  of  that  great  authority  on  architecture,  Violet 
Le  Due. 

To  work  with  these  men  by  day  and  listen  to 
them  often  half  the  night  was  a  pretty  good  substi- 
tute for  an  art  education.  Broome  was  one  of  those 
men  who  are  interested  only  in  what  they  have  not 
yet  accomplished.  If  he  turned  out,  as  he  did  once 
while  I  was  with  him,  a  half  dozen  exquisitely 
colored  vases,  no  one  could  induce  him  to  make  any 
more.  He  had  accomplished  that.  Why  waste 
time  duplicating  the  performance.'*  Life  to  him  was 
a  series  of  "stunts,"  and  he  could  not  be  brought  to 
see,  either  by  reason,  or  by  poverty,  or  by  any  of  the 
spurs  which  keep  other  men  working  at  something 
they  have  mastered,  that  a  prolonged  effort  in  one 
direction  was  worth  more  than  to  do  whatever  he 
had  undertaken,  exactly  right,  once. 

Caspar  when  at  work  wore  an  old  blouse — blue 
linen,  I  think — which  he  said  was  the  blouse  of  the 
masons,  builders  of  cathedrals.  He  was  brought  up 
in  that  guild,  and  many  times  recounted  to  me  the 
training  a  cathedral  builder  must  go  through. 
Every  operation  in  building  must  be  a  part  of  his 
experience.  He  must  cut  stone,  mix  mortar,  lay 
masonry,  model  and  carve  ornament  and  the  figure, 
must  make  working  drawings  and  freehand  draw- 
ings, color  drawings — all  before  the  final  art  of 
designing  is  reached. 

252 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

We  turned  out  some  beautiful  terra-cotta  capitals, 
belt  courses,  and  the  like,  but  the  sheriff  came  along 
one  day  and  the  "atelier,"  as  Caspar  fondly  called 
the  old  shed  and  two  kilns,  was  closed  up  and 
sealed.  Caspar  went  West.  I  never  saw  him  again. 
Broome  betook  himself  to  Blissville  near  the  Cal- 
vary Cemetery,  where  he  carved  little  stone  lambs 
on  the  tops  of  tombstones  for  a  while,  wrote  a  book 
on  Socialism,  went  later  to  Trenton  and  there 
modeled  a  beautiful  colossal  bust  of  Cleopatra  and 
produced  it  in  porcelain.  This  was  one  of  the  pieces 
which  brought  the  Japanese  commissioners  to  the 
Centennial  Exposition  at  Philadelphia  to  see  him. 

A  picture  of  Broome's  Cleopatra  was  published  in 
the  Century  Magazine  at  the  time  it  was  exhibited 
in  Philadelphia,  but  the  whereabouts  of  the  bust 
itself  is  a  mystery  to  this  day. 

Broome  got  some  notion  in  his  head  that  certain 
persons  were  trying  to  get  the  bust  away  from  him. 
Quite  in  character,  he  took  the  bust  out  of  his  studio 
one  dark  night  and  buried  it.  Of  this  he  told  me 
years  afterward — ^surely  Cleopatra  never  brought 
anybody  luck. 


253 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  more  prominent  the  position  which  a  man 
occupies  in  the  world  the  less  well  is  he  known. 
That  sounds  like  a  paradox;  nevertheless,  it 
is  easily  proven.  What  we  know  about  such  a 
man  is  what  people  say  about  him,  and  the  more 
people  there  are  who  come  in  contact  with  him 
the  more  diverse  opinions  we  receive.  Before  I 
joined  the  staff  of  the  New  York  Herald  I  heard  a 
great  deal  about  James  Gordon  Bennett,  and  in 
fact  I  was  warned  by  a  number  of  people  who 
thought  they  knew  him  well  not  to  enter  his  employ; 
he  was  capricious  and  arbitrary,  expecting  absolute 
subservience.  I  hesitated  and  held  up  his  offer  for 
over  a  year,  but  finally  made  up  my  mind  to  take 
the  place  of  cartoonist  offered  me.  Even  then  I 
was  told  I  would  not  last  a  year  with  so  eccentric  a 
personage. 

Eighteen  years  later  it  was  with  deep  sorrow  that 
I  received  the  news  flashed  over  by  cable  that  my 
good  friend  James  Gordon  Bennett  was  dead. 
Eighteen  years  had  never  disclosed  to  me  a  single 
inconsiderate  act  on  his  part;  nor  had  I  received 
any  capricious  or  arbitrary  instructions  in  regard 
to  my  work. 

On  one  occasion,  in  1907,  I  was  called  over  to 

254 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Paris  to  see  Mr.  Bennett.  At  that  time  the  auto- 
mobile industry  was  very  new  in  this  country  and 
there  were  many  accidents  in  the  neighborhood  of 
New  York,  due  to  reckless  driving  over  roads 
unfamiliar  to  the  drivers.  A  number  of  people  had 
been  killed  within  a  few  weeks  in  shocking  accidents, 
almost  all  due  to  reckless  driving.  I  had  made  a 
cartoon  called  "The  End  of  the  Road"  which 
showed  Death  taking  his  toll.  Some  association  of 
automobile  manufacturers  or  advertisers  had  written 
a  strong  protest  to  the  HeiUbd  against  the  publica- 
tion of  this  cartoon,  claiming  it  hurt  the  sale  of 
automobiles. 

When  I  went  in  to  call  on  Mr.  Bennett  for  the  first 
time  at  his  house  in  the  Champs  Elysees  he  had  a 
copy  of  the  offending  cartoon  and  all  the  documents 
in  the  case  on  his  desk.  Mr.  Bennett  almost  imme- 
diately called  my  attention  to  the  matter  and  asked 
me  to  explain  why  I  had  made  a  cartoon  so  evidently 
distasteful  to  the  young  and  growing  automobile 
industry.  He  looked  very  serious,  and  I  realized 
instantly  the  importance  of  standing  my  ground  or 
of  presently  finding  myself  without  any  ground  to 
stand  on.  So  I  said  that  the  cartoon  was  "abso- 
lutely justified,"  that  I  owed  it  as  a  duty  to  the 
public  to  give  a  warning  where  so  many  lives  were 
being  sacrificed  by  careless  drivers;  and  I  made  no 
excuses  whatever  for  the  cartoon. 

Mr.  Bennett  then  picked  up  a  paper  and  told  me 
to  listen  to  what  he  had  just  cabled  to  the  "Herald 
in  New  York."  It  was  an  editorial  stating  that  the 
Herald  was  used  as  an  advertising  medium  only  by 

255 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

those  who  found  it  to  their  advantage  so  to  use  it, 
that  no  industry  or  other  agency  could  dictate  its 
poHcy  in  editorials  or  cartoons,  and  that  if  the 
automobile  cartoon  had  displeased  any  advertisers 
they  were  entirely  free  to  take  their  advertisements 
from  its  columns. 

Of  course,  all  this  little  scene  had  been  set  with  a 
purpose.  I  think  Mr.  Bennett  from  that  day  felt  a 
certain  confidence  in  my  sincerity,  and  I  know  his 
backing  of  my  work  on  that  occasion  gave  me  a 
feeling  of  security  and  also  of  responsibility  for  my 
future  course  in  cartoon  work.  In  fact,  that  day 
was  the  beginning  of  a  lasting  friendship  which  was 
shown  on  his  side  by  many  cablegrams  and  kindly 
messages  continuing  up  to  the  time  of  his  death. 

In  the  early  part  of  September,  1914,  when 
opinions  in  high  places  differed  strangely  one  from 
another  as  to  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  World 
War,  a  cable  came  over  one  night  to  the  editor  of 
the  Herald.  The  night  editor  called  me  up  at  mid- 
night and  said  he  had  a  message  for  me  at  the  end 
of  the  cable  to  the  editor  from  Mr.  Bennett.  He 
read  it  over  the  phone:  "Tell  Rogers  there  is  only 
one  issue  in  this  war.  It  is  the  issue  between  civiliza- 
tion and  savagery. — Bennett."  Those  were  Mr. 
Bennett's  instructions  in  the  early  days  of  Sep- 
tember, 1914,  the  only  instructions  he  ever  gave  as 
to  the  cartoons  during  the  war.  If  there  was  any 
statesman  on  this  side  of  the  water  who  realized 
what  this  war  was  about,  upon  whom  the  blame  for 
starting  it  rested,  and  how  it  was  being  waged, 
before  James  Gordon  Bennett  epitomized  it  all  in 

256 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

that  one  sentence,  then  he  has  for  all  these  years 
held  his  peace. 

WTiile  the  war  was  in  progress  in  1915  Mr.  Bennett 
made  one  of  his  short  visits  to  New  York.  The 
subject  of  his  refusal  to  leave  Paris  when  the  govern- 
ment was  removed  to  Bordeaux  and  most  of  the 
newspapers  went  with  it  came  up  in  a  conversation 
with  him  at  that  time.  I  had  always  felt  a  great 
pride  in  the  fact  that  an  American  had  so  stuck  to 
his  post  of  duty,  and  especially  a  man  to  whom  I 
was  closely  allied.  I  said  just  a  word  or  two  to  that 
effect  and  IVIr.  Bennett  chuckled.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"what  else  was  there  to  do?"  and  that  was  the  sub- 
stance of  the  whole  matter  to  an  old  sportsman  who 
always  played  the  game  to  the  limit — "\Miat  else 
was  there  to  do.^*" 

Then  he  told  me  the  story.  The  Germans  were 
coming  nearer  and  nearer  every  day;  Paris  was 
growing  more  and  more  nervous.  The  government 
had  fled  to  Bordeaux.  It  really  began  to  look  as 
though  the  Germans  would  be  at  the  gates  of  the 
city  in  a  few  more  days. 

"One  of  my  men  came  to  me  and  said,  'IMr. 
Bennett,  what  provision  have  you  made  for  us  in 
case  the  Germans  get  here.? '  Of  course  I  had  to  say, 
'What  provision  have  I  made  for  myself?  I  think 
the  Germans  will  tell  us  what  we  may  or  may 
not  do.' 

"The  next  morning  the  same  man  came  into  the 
office.  It  was  the  morning  when  the  German  army 
had  arrived  at  the  nearest  point  to  Paris  which  it 
ever  reached.     It  was  this  young  man's  duty  to 

257 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

stick  a  pin  in  the  map  showing  each  advance  of  the 
Germans.  He  was  so  nervous  by  this  time  that  he 
couldn't  stick  the  pin  within  ten  or  fifteen  miles  of 
the  proper  position,  and  began  talking  again  of  the 
probability  of  the  Germans  entering  Paris. 

"It  was  an  unpleasant  subject  and  I  asked  him 
kindly  to  think  of  something  else.  At  last  he  man- 
aged to  stick  the  pin  within  four  or  five  miles  of  the 
German  advanced  position;  then  he  disappeared 
and  I  have  never  seen  him  since!" 

That  was  all  James  Gordon  Bennett  had  to  say 
about  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  devotion  to  duty 
on  the  part  of  a  civilian  which  the  story  of  those 
great  days  has  brought  forth. 

One  incident  that  happened  in  connection  with  a 
visit  to  Paris  a  few  years  ago  is  worth  telling.  Mr. 
Bennett  had  sent  for  me  to  come  to  Paris,  and  one 
of  the  oldest  members  of  the  Herald  staff  called  me 
into  his  office  to  give  a  few  hints  as  to  the  etiquette 
of  a  visit  to  the  "Commodore." 

First,  I  was  to  cable  Mr.  Bennett  on  my  arrival 
at  Queenstown;  then  on  arriving  at  Liverpool  I 
was  to  cable  him  again.  When  I  left  London  for 
Dover  I  was  to  cable  him  again,  and  when  I  arrived 
in  Paris  I  was  to  telephone  to  his  office  or  house,  I 
forget  which,  and  inquire  just  what  hotel  he  wished 
me  to  put  up  at.  When  that  was  all  settled  I  was  to 
sit  down  and  wait  for  a  summons  to  call  at  his  house. 

When  I  sailed  into  Cork  Harbor  it  occurred  to 
me  that  perhaps  Mr.  Bennett  might  defer  his 
anxiety  as  to  my  whereabouts  until  I  reached  the 
end  of  the  voyage  at  Liverpool;  and  when  I  reached 

25S 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

that  port  there  was  plenty  to  do  in  getting  out  my 
baggage  and  securing  accommodations  on  the  train 
to  London.  Again  I  neglected  to  allay  Mr.  Bennett's 
anxiety  by  sending  him  a  cablegram.  In  London, 
where  we  (there  were  four  in  our  party)  looked 
about  for  a  couple  of  days,  there  was  too  much  that 
was  interesting  to  see  to  bother  with  cablegrams. 
We  arrived  in  Paris  in  due  time  and  proceeded  at 
once  to  the  Place  d'lena,  where  there  was  a  quiet 
little  hotel  in  a  good  location  well  suited  to  our 
needs.  So  far  we  had  broken  every  rule  of  the  eti- 
quette of  a  visit  to  the  "Commodore"  from  start  to 
finish.  When  we  were  comfortably  settled  we  sent 
a  note  around  to  No.  104  Champs  filysees,  stating 
that  we  had  arrived  and  were  stopping  on  the  Place 
d'lena  and  would  be  pleased  to  call  at  Mr.  Bennett's 
convenience. 

One  thing  had  been  impressed  upon  me  before  I 
left  New  York  as  absolutely  essential — we  must 
not  leave  our  hotel  even  for  a  moment  until  we  were 
summoned  to  attend  the  "Commodore."  But  Paris 
is  most  alluring.  We  hung  about  the  doorway  of 
our  hostelry  the  afternoon  after  we  arrived,  for 
about  two  hours.  There  was  the  Trocadero  in  plain 
sight;  across  the  Seine  the  Eiffel  Tower  was  beck- 
oning us  to  come  over.  We  fell  from  grace  and  went. 
My  companion,  Mr.  Bonte  of  the  Herald  art  depart- 
ment, had  a  camera  with  him.  Nothing  would  do, 
when  we  reached  the  Tower,  which  from  below 
looked  like  a  huge  spider  web,  but  he  must  go  to 
the  top  and  take  a  picture  of  all  of  Paris  that  could 
be  caught  on  a  S"x4i"  plate.    My  ambition  was  not 

259 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

so  great.  I  was  content  to  watch  the  httle  passenger 
boats  creeping  up  and  down  the  river. 

Bonte  disappeared  like  a  small  fly  in  the  huge 
spider  web,  and  after  a  while  I  grew  tired  of  waiting 
about  and  walked  back  to  the  hotel.  There  I  found 
a  note  from  Mr.  Bennett  telling  us  to  call  at  four, 
and  the  clerk  informed  me  that  a  messenger  had 
brought  It  in  at  least  an  hour  before.  Here  was  a 
pretty  situation.  A  quarter  to  four  and  Bonte 
somewhere  at  either  the  top  or  the  bottom  of  the 
Eiffel  Tower.  I  jumped  into  a  little  horse-drawn 
cab  and  dashed — at  any  rate,  proceeded — ^toward 
the  Eiffel  Tower,  arrived  underneath  it,  and  looked 
up  into  the  labyrinth  of  trusses  and  beams — but 
no  Bonte  was  visible. 

Ten,  fifteen,  twenty  minutes  passed,  and  then, 
sauntering  toward  me  with  a  pleased  expression 
on  his  countenance  denoting  success,  came  my 
friend.  I  hustled  him  into  the  cab  and  we  made 
for  the  Champs  filysees  as  rapidly  as  the  old 
horse  could  travel;  but,  alas!  we  were  more  than 
half  an  hour  late  and  Mr.  Bennett  had  departed 
for  his  country  place  at  Versailles.  We  telephoned 
his  secretary  next  day  and  made  an  appointment 
which  we  kept  with  precise  regard  to  time. 

Bonte,  of  course,  had  a  fair  excuse  in  his  ignorance 
of  the  time  a  trip  to  the  top  of  the  Eiffel  Tower  and 
back  to  the  ground  usually  takes;  but  a  curious  fact 
prevented  us  from  advancing  it.  Just  at  that  time 
a  very  amusing  farce  was  being  played  in  Paris, 
founded  on  an  accident  to  the  "Ferris  wheel,"  in 
which  an  eloping  couple  sit  imprisoned  in  one  of  the 

260 


':'■'/    J 


YOUNG  ABBEY  AND  HIS  MENTOR,  CHARLES  PARSONS, 
IN  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

cars  high  up  in  the  air,  while  tiieir  pursuers  are  in 
the  car  directly  behind  them,  and  no  one  is  able  to 
reach  the  earth.  We  felt  pretty  sure  that  Mr. 
Bennett  knew  all  about  this  farce,  and  we  did  not 
care  to  make  our  first  appearance  with  a  perfectly 
true  excuse,  but  one  which  looked  like  a  very  foolish 
bit  of  plagiarism.  We  had  then  to  fall  back  on  a 
bare  statement  that  we  had  been  sightseeing  and 
did  not  receive  his  note  until  too  late  to  keep  the 
appointment. 

Not  the  least  shade  of  displeasure  was  shown  by 
our  good  host,  as  I  remember  that  interview. 

Half  the  trouble  which  some  of  the  people  who 
came  in  contact  with  Mr.  Bennett  had  with  him 
arose  from  treating  him  as  though  they  expected  to 
find  him  different  from  other  people.  All  those 
preposterous  cablegrams  from  Queenstown,  Liver- 
pool, and  London  would  entitle  the  sender  to  be 
treated  like  an  idiot;  doubtless  our  delightful  recep- 
tion was  due  to  the  fact  that  we  acted  like  human 
beings.  I  am  sure  my  comrade  on  that  occasion 
would  bear  me  out  in  the  statement  that  you  had 
only  to  be  "a  regular  fellow,"  to  show  a  little  respect 
for  yourself,  in  order  to  get  and  hold  for  life  the 
respect  and  friendship  of  James  Gordon  Bennett. 

While  on  the  subject  of  the  Herald  (for  Bennett 
was  the  Herald),  I  must  relate  a  personal  experience 
which  is  so  strange  that  I  should  hesitate  to  tell  it 
if  I  had  not  the  documents  to  prove  that  it  actually 
took  place. 

During  the  summer  of  1912  I  picked  up  a  book 
called  Brain  and  Personality,  by  Doctor  Thompson, 

261 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

a  purely  scientific  book  which  was  pubhshed  with 
the  expectation  of  a  probable  sale  of  fifteen  hundred 
or  two  thousand  copies.  I  have  been  told  that  more 
than  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  copies  were 
sold,  so  great  was  the  popular  interest  in  its  subject- 
matter.  I  became  fascinated  with  the  new  problems 
which  the  book  opened  up  and  either  solved  or  set 
one  to  striving  to  solve  in  one's  own  way.  Then  a 
very  strenuous  political  campaign  started  and  I  put 
the  book  aside. 

Right  in  the  middle  of  the  campaign  I  met  with  a 
serious  accident,  breaking  my  right  arm  close  to  the 
shoulder,  and  breaking  my  collar  bone  and  fracturing 
my  shoulder  blade.  Here  was  a  pretty  bag  of  bones. 
I  sat  down  in  front  of  my  drawing  board,  waiting 
for  my  family  physician  and  the  surgeon  who  was  to 
patch  me  up,  and  wondering  what  I  was  to  do  for 
an  arm  to  draw  with  for  the  remainder  of  the  cam- 
paign; and  then  I  thought  of  the  book,  Brain  and 
Personality.  In  it  was  a  minute  description  of  the 
processes  of  control  of  the  organs  of  speech  and  of 
the  hands  by  different  accurately  charted  portions 
of  the  brain.  Nothing  in  my  accident  had  impaired 
my  knowledge  of  my  business  or  the  motive  power 
which  had  compelled  my  right  hand  for  many 
years  to  obey  a  mind  trained  to  do  a  certain  work. 
Why  not  commandeer  my  left  hand  and  compel  it 
likewise  to  obey  my  will? 

I  thought  of  the  precedents  in  my  own  profession. 
Every  one  of  them  was  against  the  possibility  of 
making  an  untrained  left  hand,  which  had  never 
drawn  a  stroke,  take  up  the  work  of  the  right. 

262 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

Mr.  de  Lipman,  in  this  country,  after  losing  the  use 
of  his  right  hand  trained  his  left  to  do  its  work; 
but  it  took  many  weary  months  to  accomplish  this. 
Daniel  Vierge,  one  of  the  great  draftsmen  of  the 
world,  had  the  same  experience.  There  were  one  or 
two  others,  but  no  one  had  ever  accomplished  what 
I  now  made  up  my  mind  to  attempt.  When  the 
doctors  arrived  I  was  busy  on  a  cartoon,  and  they 
both  exclaimed,  "How  fortunate  it  is  that  you  are 
left-handed!"  Of  course,  my  left  arm  was  very 
weak,  and  if  I  worked  too  long  it  would  balk  and 
run  lines  directly  backward  from  the  way  intended; 
but  I  finished  my  cartoon  before  nine  o'clock  that 
night,  called  a  messenger,  and  sent  it  down  to  the 
Herald  office. 

Soon  my  telephone  rang.  The  art  director  of  the 
Herald  was  on  the  wire. 

"So  you  had  a  cartoon  left  over.  Lucky,  wasn't 
it.?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "it  wasn't  left  over;  I  made  it  this 
evening!" 

"Oh,  come,"  was  his  answer,  "old  man,  there 
ain't  no  such  animal!" 

Not  until  another  cartoon  came  down  next  day 
did  he  believe  me.  Of  several  cartoons  made  during 
the  campaign  of  1912  I  can  distinguish  the  right- 
and  left-handed  ones  only  by  referring  to  the  dates 
on  which  they  were  published. 

Of  course,  in  the  book.  Brain  and  Personality, 
there  is  no  method  given  or  even  hinted  at  for  a 
control  such  as  I  have  described;  but  from  some  of 
the  phenomena  presented  bv  Doctor  Thompson  I 

263 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

made  my  own  little  deductions.  It  seemed  to  me 
impossible  for  my  left  hand  to  disobey  if  sufficient 
faith  and  power  of  will  were  exercised.  In  spite  of 
the  fact  that  no  one  has  ever  before,  so  far  as  re- 
corded, succeeded  in  instantly  transferring  the  skill 
of  his  right  hand  to  his  left,  I  am  convinced  it  can 
be  done  by  anyone  of  fairly  strong  will,  provided 
he  has  also  absolute  faith. 

Doctor  Thompson  was  told  of  this  at  the  time 
and  sent  me  word  that  I  ought  by  all  means  to  write 
a  full  and  exact  account  of  just  how  this  curious 
thing  was  accomplished — that  there  was  no  record 
of  anything  approaching  it.  I  have  attempted  to 
give  the  details  here,  but  must  freely  admit  there 
was  something  about  the  whole  affair  which  was 
uncanny;  and,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning,  if  I  had 
not  the  documentary  proof  to  offer  I  should  not  dare 
to  tell  the  story. 

Men  who  write  are  always  menaced  by  the 
tem.ptation  to  become  publishers.  Julian  Ralph, 
star  reporter  of  the  Sun,  once  succumbed  to  this 
perilous  allure  and  started  a  weekly  magazine  called 
Chatter.  His  office  was  up  a  little  back  alley  near 
Park  Row.  Chatter  was  printed  on  yellow  paper 
and  was  a  lasting  proof — no,  not  lasting;  that  is 
hardly  the  word — fleeting  proof  that  a  good  reporter 
may  be  a  poor  publisher  and  editor. 

But  Chatter  was  Ralph's  only  literary  child  and  he 
nursed  it  along  for  several  months,  accumulating 
in  that  time  a  great  heap  of  "returns"  which  almost 
filled  the  publication  office.     The  little  back  alley 

264 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

where  Chatter  made  its  home  was  also  the  meeting 
place  of  what  was  known  as  the  Ann  Street  gang, 
and  perhaps  the  yellow  color  of  the  returns  gave 
them  a  brilliant  idea. 

Everyone,  of  course,  does  not  know  who  the 
"Ann  Street  gang"  are.  When  one  is  awakened  at 
midnight  by  a  couple  of  big  booming  voices  alarm- 
ingly shouting  unintelligible  cries  on  either  side  of 
the  street  below,  be  sure  that  is  a  contingent  from 
the  Ann  Street  gang.  When  the  "gang"  is  abroad 
all  the  little  newsboys  disappear  from  the  streets. 
For  the  time  being  the  big  fellows  rule  supreme. 

Ralph  was  sitting  in  his  sanctum  one  morning 
when  a  hard-looking  countenance  appeared  over  the 
top  of  a.  pile  of  returns.  "Si,  boss,"  came  a  husky 
voice,  "watcher  goin'  t'do  'thall  them  returns.^*" 

That  was  exactly  what  Ralph  had  been  thinking 
about  all  morning.    He  didn't  know. 

It  appeared  to  be  the  psychological  moment. 

"Tell  yer  w'at  we'll  do,  mister.  Me  an'  me  pard- 
ners  have  a  business  in  Newark  an'  Paterson.  We 
sells  old  magazines  for  Harpers  an'  Scribners  'n' 
the  Cenchry.  We'll  take  t'ree  or  four  bundles  of 
ver  returns  out  to  Newark  an'  Paterson  and  see  how 
they  goes.  If  they  goes  good,  we'll  buy  all  y'got. 
Savvy  .f*  Y'  got  ter  trust  us  for  the  first  ones.  Cash 
for  all  the  rest." 

It  didn't  look  exactly  like  affluence  staring  him 
in  the  face,  but  Publisher  Ralph  felt  that  Chatter 
was  in  no  position  to  drive  a  hard  bargain,  and  pretty 
soon  two  or  three  big,  husky  fellows  carried  off 
several  bundles  of  unsold  magazines. 

265 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

By  and  by  Ralph  put  on  his  hat  and  went  to 
lunch. 

What  was  this  tremendous  hubbub  on  Nassau 
Street?  An  extra?  What  could  have  happened? 
Was  the  President  assassinated?  No,  the  "gang" 
was  out,  and  the  little  newsboys  cowered  in  the 
corners.  But  hoarse  cries,  much  more  articulate 
than  usual,  boomed  up  and  down  the  streets: 

"Chatter  reduced  to  one  cent!  Chatter!  Chatter! 
reduced  to  one  cent!     Chatter!    Chatter!" 

Ralph  dodged  into  the  first  and  cheapest  lunch 
place  in  sight.    A  week  later  he  was  back  on  the  Sun. 


266 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WITH  the  exception  of  a  brief  mention  of  the 
World  War  in  a  story  about  James  Gordon 
Bennett,  these  little  sketches  of  men  and 
things  worth  while  all  date  back  to  the  days  before 
the  world  was  made  over — or,  to  be  more  exact, 
before  its  making  over  was  begun. 

The  war  made  or  marred  many  reputations.  In 
that  fierce  heat  much  dross  was  separated  from  the 
pure  gold  and  was  cast  out.  We  had  scarcely  entered 
the  great  conflict  before  a  little  coterie,  or,  to  use 
pure  English,  a  little  "bunch"  of  illustrators  and 
poster  men,  met  in  the  studio  of  Charles  Dana 
Gibson  in  New  York  and  organized  for  war  work. 
They,  or  rather  we,  pledged  ourselves  to  design 
posters  and  to  do  other  pictorial  publicity  for  the 
United  States  government  without  compensation 
for  the  duration  of  the  war. 

There  were  about  a  dozen  of  us  at  the  first  meeting 
and  we  arranged  for  some  of  our  number  to  go  to 
Washington  at  once,  get  in  touch  with  the  depart- 
ments, and  find  out  what  propaganda  was  needed 
which  could  be  carried  on  through  pictorial  art. 
It  took  us  three  months  of  most  discouraging  work 
to  break  our  way  through  the  armadillolike  armor 
which  incased  the  oflBcial  mind.    At  last  it  dawned 

267 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

on  some  one  down  In  Washington  that  pictures 
might  awaken  interest  in  the  various  enterprises  of 
war.  Three  or  four  urgent  requests  for  posters,  to 
be  sent  at  once,  came  to  us;  and  in  less  than  a  week 
we  had  sent  designs,  many  of  them  elaborately 
worked  out,  to  the  authorities  in  Washington. 

Weeks  passed  and  no  response  reached  us.  We 
sent  men  to  see  what  had  become  of  the  drawings. 
In  some  cases  the  packages  containing  them  had  not 
been  opened.  Through  all  this  period  we  held 
weekly  meetings,  and  in  spite  of  the  discouragements 
thrown  in  our  way  more  and  more  artists  joined  us. 
Finally  one  or  two  posters  were  accepted,  and  were 
printed  and  distributed.  They  instantly  proved 
their  effectiveness  as  propaganda.  Rush  orders 
poured  in  on  us  and  soon  we  were  almost  over- 
whelmed with  work. 

The  problem  of  keeping  the  enthusiasm  and  inspir- 
ation of  the  artists  at  white  heat  then  came  up. 
English,  French,  Italian,  and  Russian  officers  over 
here  on  sick  leave  were  pressed  into  that  service. 
Our  weekly  meetings  at  a  very  modest  dinner  in  a 
chop  house  became  the  most-talked-of  functions  in 
town.  The  after-dinner  talks  of  some  of  our  guests 
attracted  a  great  number  of  people.  As  far  as  pos- 
sible we  discouraged  those  who  came  to  be  enter- 
tained, but  even  those,  in  some  instances,  were  so 
impressed  by  the  tense  atmosphere  of  the  meetings 
that  they  became  active  workers. 

Piqued,  no  doubt,  by  the  unsought  prominence 
which  our  meetings  had  gained,  a  certain  clique  of 
artists,  who  had  not  volunteered  to  help  us,  got  it 

268 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

into  their  more  or  less  empty  heads  that  we  were 
trying  to  "monopolize  the  war  work."  The  idea 
of  setting  up  a  monopoly  by  giving  thousands  of 
dollars'  worth  of  work  for  nothing  seemed  to  us, 
who  were  sitting  up  nights  or  spending  our  week- 
ends in  our  studios,  just  a  trifle  amusing.  So  when 
these  foolish  people  came  down  to  one  of  our  meetings 
and  proceeded  to  read  us  a  lecture  on  the  enormity 
of  our  selfishness,  we  offered  to  share  our  monopoly 
with  them  then  and  there. 

But  no!  that  was  not  exactly  what  they  desired. 
One  of  their  number,  not  quite  so  diplomatic  as  the 
others,  let  the  tough  old  nine-lived  financial  cat 
which  they  had  brought  with  them  out  of  the  bag. 
"Work  which  was  not  paid  for,"  he  declared,  "was 
of  little  value.  What  we  should  do  was  to  have  a 
large  fund  set  aside  by  the  government  for  poster 
designs;  then  we  would  be  on  a  sound  business  basis 
and  able  to  produce  worthy  works  of  art!" 

As  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  that  was  about  as 
far  as  he  got;  for  at  this  point  an  unregenerate 
illustrator  who  had  contributed  weeks  of  his  time 
to  the  cause  interrupted  the  speaker  with  a  very 
short  but  forcible  remark.  It  was  exceedingly  rude 
so  to  treat  a  guest  who  was  trying  to  advise  and 
enrich  us,  but  we  felt  that  the  money  changers  had 
invaded  our  temple  and  we  knew  there  was  a  prec- 
edent set  by  the  Gentlest  of  all  Mankind  for  rough 
methods  of  driving  the  money  changers  out.  From 
that  night  to  the  end  of  the  war  the  subject  of  com- 
pensation was  never  raised  again. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  some  one  of  the  clever 

269 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

writers  who  used  often  to  come  to  those  meetings 
has  left  a  record  of  what  happened  there.  In  this 
Hmited  account  I  can  give  only  a  ghmpse  here  and 
there,  where  memory  burned  in  some  unforgetable 
experience.  As  our  own  boys  came  under  fire  on  the 
other  side  and  the  crisis  of  the  war  became  acute, 
the  reaction  from  it  all  was  more  tense  in  our  little 
circle  (so  we  were  often  told  by  those  who  came  to 
us  from  the  outside)  than  in  almost  any  place  in  the 
country'.  The  various  drives  required  pictures,  and 
in  attempting  to  visualize  the  national  emotion  I 
think  the  artists  were  among  those  most  deeply 
enmeshed  in  the  enthusiasms  and  the  depressions 
of  an  enterprise  so  uncertain  as  war. 

Our  meetings  grew  so  large  that  it  became  neces- 
sary to  transfer  them  to  the  gallery  of  the  Sal- 
magundi Club.  These,  of  course,  were  the  public 
meetings,  held  for  their  stimulating  effect  on  the 
men  who  were  doing  the  work.  But  the  real  activ- 
ities of  the  artists  were  in  their  studios  and  in  the 
business  office  at  200  Fifth  Avenue,  where  an  enor- 
mous amount  of  work  was  accomplished  by  the  one 
dollar  less  than  a  one-dollar-a-year  secretary,  Mr. 
F.  D.  Casey,  with  one  assistant  and  a  stenographer 
to  help  him. 

Some  of  the  work  of  distributing  the  subjects  to 
be  drawn  was  afterward  lifted  from  Casey's  shoulders 
by  a  group  of  "captains,"  who  handled  the  different 
classes  of  drawings  used  in  propaganda— posters, 
cartoons,  newspaper  illustrations,  magazine  work, 
and  so  forth. 

I  was  very  much  amused  one  night  by  an  orator 

270 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

from  Washington  wlio  came  up  to  New  York  to  tell 
us  how  to  run  our  publicity  campaign.  He  had 
imbibed  in  early  youth  the  usual  idea  of  the  irre- 
sponsibility of  artists,  and  he  told  us  that  what  we 
needed  was  instruction  in  efficiency.  He  came  from 
Washington,  where,  in  the  early  stages  of  the  war, 
everything  was  standing  on  its  head  which  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  have  a  head  at  all.  Time  and 
money  were  being  frittered  away;  and  delay,  delay 
was  the  complaint  against  every  department  of  the 
government. 

I  felt  somewhat  aggrieved  at  his  remarks  and 
gave  him  a  short  statement  of  what  our  little  organ- 
ization had  done  without  the  expenditure  of  a  dollar 
except  for  our  office  rent  and  our  stenographer. 
We  had  produced  hundreds  of  posters,  cartoons, 
illustrations,  and  paintings,  and  not  once  had  the 
delivery  of  the  work  been  behind  the  scheduled  time; 
and  I  asked  him  to  name  another  department  of 
governmental  activity  which  could  come  within 
hailing  distance  of  our  record. 

Of  course  there  was  a  very  simple  explanation  of 
our  success  in  keeping  to  schedule.  Nine-tenths  of 
us  had  worked  for  publication ;  we  had  been  brought 
up  on  the  idea  that  time,  tide,  and  the  printing  press 
wait  for  no  man.  The  fundamental  difference  be- 
tween us  and  most  of  the  people  who  were  trying 
to  function  in  Washington  was  that  we  knew  our 
business,  while  they  were  rank  amateurs. 

Our  Thursday-night  dinners  at  the  Salmagundi 
formed  a  melting  pot  into  which  fell  some  of  the 
strangest    ingredients    ever    brought    together.      I 

271 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

remember  a  weeping  Russian  officer  who  wished  us 
to  go  over  to  his  country  and  take  charge  of  it. 
He  could  see  no  other  solution  for  their  troubles.  I 
felt,  as  I  listened  to  him,  that  the  Russian  habit  of 
tears  was  the  real  cause  of  all  their  ills.  No  one 
ever  saw  an  American  so  sorry  for  himself  or  his 
country  but  that  he  would  resent  the  slightest  hint 
of  anyone  coming  over  here  to  settle  our  difficulties 
for  us.  But  this  officer  in  the  full  uniform  of  a 
Russian  colonel  begged  us,  without  shame,  to  send 
Americans  over  there  to  form  a  government  for  his 
people. 

There  were  some  nights  when  we  had  speakers 
who  formed  strange  contrasts  one  to  another.  The 
men  we  soon  learned  to  despise  were  the  "orators," 
and  the  men  who  electrified  us  and  charged  the 
whole  atmosphere  with  an  intensity  of  feeling  that 
sent  shivers  up  and  down  one's  spine  were  the  men 
from  the  trenches  or  the  destroyers  or  the  airplanes, 
who  told  their  simple  stories  awkwardly,  haltingly, 
unconscious  of  the  impression  they  produced.  Look- 
ing back  to  those  nights,  one  can  recall  the  meta- 
morphosis of  character  that  was  constantly  going  on 
among  the  men  who  saw  service  on  the  other  side. 
When  they  came  back  you  couldn't  tell  a  light- 
hearted  actor  from  a  Baptist  preacher,  a  man  of  the 
Roman  Church  from  a  man  of  the  Great  Church  of 
Outdoor.  The  proud  had  become  humble  and  the 
humble  had  good  cause  to  be  proud  of  themselves. 

I  remember  two  preachers  who  declared  they  had 
only  learned  what  religion  meant  when  they  en- 
countered it  in  the  trenches.    And  that  brings  vividly 

272 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

to  mind  a  night  when  we  knew  that  over  on  the  edge 
of  No  Man's  Land  our  men  were  striving  desperately 
to  hold  back  the  enemy.  They  had  not  yet  taken 
the  bit  in  their  teetli  and  started  the  forward  rush 
that  won  the  war.  I  was  perhaps  one  of  the  very 
few  in  that  room  whose  minds  turned  back  to  those 
tense  days  of  Gettysburg  during  the  Civil  War, 
days  when  one's  heartstrings  were  keyed  up  almost 
to  the  breaking  point.  But  if  the  feeling  was  new 
to  most  of  the  men  in  that  room,  it  was  none  the 
less  poignant;  for  the  lives  of  their  brothers  and 
sons  and  the  fate  of  their  country  were  all  at  stake. 

Up  from  his  seat  rose  a  man  in  his  thirties;  a 
shock  of  curly  brown  hair  gave  him  a  boyish  air. 
He  wore  an  old  tweed  suit,  and  as  he  looked  about 
he  seemed  rather  embarrassed.  He  began  talking 
to  us  in  an  apologetic  manner.  He  felt  that  perhaps 
he  would  bore  a  company'  of  painters  and  illustrators 
if  he  talked  of  what  was  on  his  mind,  for,  he  said, 
he  was  a  preacher  by  profession  and  he  would  like 
to  tell  us  a  little  of  what  he  had  learned  about  re- 
ligion while  among  our  men  at  the  front. 

As  he  talked  to  us  in  his  gentle,  unassuming  way 
I  looked  around  the  room  and  saw  that  he  had 
touched  the  sorely  strained  feelings  of  a  sensitive 
audience  with  a  master  hand.  There  are  eternal 
verities  which  stand  out  in  times  of  stress,  and  in 
expressing  them  this  young  preacher  never  struck 
a  false  note. 

Occasionally  there  were  nights  when  things  went 
wrong.  Once  we  had  with  us  an  excitable  Persian 
gentleman  who  wished  to  speak.     His  English  was 

273 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

somewhat  disjointed,  but  this  was  not  what  caused 
him  to  be  remembered.  Dinner  had  just  begun 
when    the    chairman    arose    and    announced    that 

Mr.  had  to  catch  a  train  for  Washington  and 

would  say  a  few  words  after  the  soup. 

He  did.  For  one  full  hour  he  rambled  on,  dinner, 
meanwhile,  growing  stone  cold.  Nobody  knows 
whether  he  caught  his  train  or  not,  but  everybody  at 
that  dinner  hoped  he  missed  it. 

Some  person  conceived  the  brilliant  idea  of  having 
a  three-year-old  girl  recite  a  patriotic  poem  one 
night,  and  the  chairman  had  the  double  duty  of 
introducing  the  performer  and  holding  her  up  in  his 
arms  so  that  she  could  be  seen  above  the  tables. 
When  she  had  finished  her  recitation  the  chairman, 
not  knowing  how  else  to  do  ]ier  honor,  called  for 
three  cheers  for  the  infant.  The  roar  that  went  up 
so  frightened  the  child  that  she  set  up  a  dismal 
howl  and  her  tears  fell  copiously  upon  the  chair- 
man's broad  shirt  front.  These  little  mishaps 
served  to  relieve  the  strain  under  which  we  all 
labored. 

But  had  it  not  been  for  the  inspiration  of  those 
meetings  the  really  great  work  done  by  the  Division 
of  Pictorial  Publicity  in  propaganda  work  for  all 
the  war  drives  and  activities  would  not  have  been 
possible.  To  its  chairman,  Charles  Dana  Gibson, 
is  due  the  credit  for  holding  together  in  harmony 
many  elements  which  had  never  worked  together 
before;  and  his  readj'^  wit  and  tact  in  managing  the 
weekly  meetings  kept  our  strange  melting  pot  always 
at  the  boiling  point,  but  never  boiling  over. 

274 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

There  were  other  activities  in  war  work  which  had 
their  origin  in  the  Division  of  Pictorial  PubHcity. 
The  painters  were  as  anxious  to  do  their  part  as  the 
illustrators  and  poster  men;  but  their  training  and 
methods  of  thought  were  entirely  different  and 
required  a  different  contact  with  the  public.  This 
was  accomplished  by  means  of  colossal  paintings 
exhibited  on  the  avenues  in  cities  and  at  fair  grounds 
and  other  public  assemblages  of  the  people  all  over 
the  country.  Many  painters  also  made  "range 
finders,"  huge  landscapes  used  in  the  training  camps 
of  the  artillery.  Other  painters  took  up  camouflage 
work  and  outdid  the  cubists,  futurists,  and  all  the 
other  faddists  in  painting  what  never  was  or  will  be. 

During  the  Victory-loan  drive  a  call  came  from 
the  Philadelphia  Sketch  Club  for  paintings  to  be 
auctioned  off  to  the  highest  bidder  in  subscriptions 
for  bonds.  The  Sketch  Club  is  located  on  Camac 
Street  in  a  tiny  old  house  that  dates  back  to  Revolu- 
tionary days.  From  curb  to  curb  the  street  is  not 
over  ten  feet  wide,  and  two  wayfarers  can  scarcely 
pass  on  the  sidewalk.  A  series  of  gigantic  alle- 
gorical pictures,  which  were  originally  exhibited  in 
front  of  the  Public  Library  in  New  York,  almost 
completely  obliterated  the  little  houses  on  either 
side,  only  a  tiny  window  or  a  foot  or  two  of  red 
brick  showing  here  and  there.  Flags  and  streamers 
completely  filled  the  little  street  and  every  day  an 
artist  set  up  his  easel  and  painted  a  picture  which 
was  auctioned  off  in  terms  of  Victory -bond  subscrip- 
tions in  the  evening. 

Mr.  Devitt  Welch,  a  young  artist  whose  rela- 

275 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

tionship,  in  spirit  at  least,  to  the  late  P.  T.  Barnum 
is  suspected,  was  the  publicity  director  of  the  drive 
for  the  Sketch  Club.  My  impression  is  that  the 
idea  of  the  club's  participation  in  the  drive  came 
originally  from  Joseph  Pennell.  How  well  it  was 
carried  out  is  attested  by  the  extraordinary  results 
in  the  sale  of  Victory  bonds.  When  the  idea  of 
auctioning  off  the  pictures  was  suggested  the  club 
felt  it  would  be  covering  itself  with  glory  if  it  dis- 
posed of  $100,000  worth  of  bonds.  When  the  drive 
was  over  it  had  sold  $3,700,000  worth. 

One  day  when  things  were  going  a  little  slow  the 
young  publicity  director  picked  up  a  morning  paper 
and  discovered  that  Ringling's  circus  had  just  come 
to  town.  Commandeering  a  friend's  motor  car,  he 
was  out  at  the  show  grounds  in  a  jiffy. 

"Can  you  spare  two  or  three  clowns  and  a  few 
elephants  for  the  Victory  drive?"  was  the  request 
he  put  to  the  circus  people. 

They  could;  and  the  next  morning  two  great 
warty-looking  beasts  came  walking  into  Camac 
Street,  followed  by  three  clowns.  One  clown  was 
dressed  as  a  comic  policeman  and  he  threatened  to 
arrest  anyone  who  refused  to  buy  a  bond.  Another 
clown  turned  handsprings  and  flipflaps  over  an  old 
Revolutionary  cannon  at  the  head  of  the  street. 
And  between  elephants  and  clowns  and  pictures 
and  flags  and  bond  buyers  Httle  Camac  Street  was 
filled  from  top  to  bottom  and  end  to  end. 

At  luncheon  that  day  I  sat  down  at  a  table  with 
Joseph  Pennell,  Mr.  Norton  of  Drexel,  Morgan  & 
Co.    (who   had   a   customer's  check  in  his  pocket 

276 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

for  the  purchase  of  fif>>'  thousand-dollar  bonds 
with  a  picture  as  a  bonus),  and  with  the  three 
clowns  from  Ringling's. 

It  was  such  a  party  as  only  the  Great  War  made 
possible,  where  a  man's  worth  to  his  country  was 
the  sole  criterion  by  which  he  was  judged. 

One  day  about  six  or  seven  years  before  the  Great 
War  I  was  a  passenger  on  board  the  Cunarder 
Campania  on  my  way  to  England.  We  were  ap- 
proaching the  rocky  shores  of  Ireland  and  the 
weather  was  becoming  very  thick.  One  could  see 
only  a  little  patch  of  rough  water  about  the  ship. 
Outside  that  there  was  nothing  but  a  thick  blanket 
of  fog. 

Captain  Dow  came  by  where  I  was  standing  at 
the  rail  and  invited  me  up  to  the  bridge. 

"I've  got  something  to  show  you  up  there.  It  is 
the  greatest  invention  for  the  safety  of  men  at  sea 
since  the  compass.  It  was  devised  by  some  Yankee 
in  your  city  of  Boston." 

W^hen  I  arrived  on  the  bridge,  as  I  remember  it, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  of  the  invention  except 
two  telephone  receivers,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
man  at  the  wheel. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  asked  Captain  Dow. 

"There  isn't  much  in  sight  to  think  about,"  I 
replied. 

"That's  the  beauty  of  it.  There's  no  machinery 
about  it.  It's  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world:  just 
two  telephones,  almost  the  same  as  the  instruments 
you  use  ashore,  placed  one  on  each  side  of  the  bow 
of  the  ship,  below  the  water  line.    They  pick  up  the 

277 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

sound  of  a  bell  buoy  or  siren  miles  away.  As  the 
sound  becomes  more  distinct  you  know  you  are 
approaching  the  warning  signal.  If  it  is  louder  in 
the  starboard  receiver  you  know  the  danger  lies 
on  that  side  and  you  steer  accordingly." 

Every  little  while  the  oflficer  who  stood  by  the 
wheel  would  pick  up  the  receiver  and  listen.  We 
hadn't  been  long  on  the  bridge  before  he  called  to 
the  captain:  "I  think  I  get  the  bell,  sir!  Will  you 
take  the  phone  .f^" 

It  was  soon  evident  from  Captain  Dow's  expres- 
sive face  that  he  too  had  caught  the  bell.  He  lis- 
tened first  with  one  receiver  and  then  with  the 
other.  "We  are  about  six  miles,"  he  said,  "from 
Old  Kinsale  Head  on  the  Irish  coast"  (or  it  may 
have  been  Galley  Head,  I  have  forgotten);  and  he 
had  the  course  of  the  vessel  changed  by  ever  so 
little. 

"Now  that  relieves  my  mind  quite  a  deal,"  the 
captain  said,  turning  to  me,  "and  I  owe  thanks  to 
my  Yankee  friend  from  your  city  of  Boston." 

A  number  of  years  went  by,  the  Great  War  came 
on;  finally  we  entered  it,  and  one  night,  at  a  meeting 
of  the  Division  of  Pictorial  Publicity  in  New  York, 
some  one  was  called  on  by  the  chairman  to  speak — 
to  tell  us  of  an  invention  that  had  been  perfected 
which  would  make  it  absolutely  impossible  for  a 
submarine  to  approach,  without  detection,  within 
six  or  seven  miles  of  a  vessel  equipped  with  this 
device.  The  direction  and  distance  of  the  submarine 
would  be  accurately  known  before  it  could  get  near 
enough  to  do  any  damage.    I  failed  to  catch  the  name 

278 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

of  the  speaker,  and  was  startled  to  hear  the  very 
voice  and  intonation  of  my  old  and  dear  friend 
Frank  Millet,  who  was  lost  years  ago  at  sea  on  the 
wreck  of  the  Titanic. 

The  speaker  was  Frank's  brother,  Joseph  Millet, 
and  he  described  what  was  practically  the  instru- 
ment used  by  Captain  Dow  on  the  Campania,  but 
carried  to  a  much  greater  state  of  perfection.  He 
told  us  of  the  long  struggle  he  had  to  make  shipping 
people  realize  how  sound  traveled  through  water. 
He  would  have  had  far  less  trouble  explaining  this 
to  a  group  of  small  boys  at  a  swimming  hole;  they 
know  what  two  stones  clapped  together  under  water 
sound  like!  For  seven  years  the  invention  which 
Captain  Dow  pronounced  a  wonderful  device  for 
making  safe  the  approach  of  vessels  to  a  rocky  and 
fog-bound  coast  was  rejected  as  impracticable  by 
most  of  the  great  shipping  houses  of  the  world.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  Joe  Millet  was  Captain  Dow's 
"Yankee  inventor  from  my  city  of  Boston." 

This  account  of  the  operation  of  a  device  which 
even  in  its  first  and  crudest  form  was  undoubtedly 
one  of  the  greatest  life-saving  inventions  of  our 
day  was  written  entirely  from  memory.  I  was  for- 
tunate enough  afterward  to  obtain  some  further 
details  from  Mr.  Millet,  which  give  a  better  idea  of 
the  device  itself. 

Far  foward  in  the  bow  of  the  vessel  two  small 
square  tanks  are  attached  to  the  inner  sides  of  the 
ship.  These  tanks  are  filled  with  water,  and  thus 
between  the  water  in  the  tanks  and  the  water  of  the 
ocean  there  was  only  a  thin  division  of  steel,  which 

279 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

was  also  a  good  conductor  of  sound.  In  each  of 
these  tanks  is  suspended  a  sealed  telephone  trans- 
mitter connected  by  wires  with  the  bridge  and  there 
furnished  with  a  switch  and  receivers,  so  that  the 
listener  can  catch  the  sound  of  either  telephone  at 
will. 

Mr.  Millet  told  me  an  interesting  story  which  he 
had  used  as  a  successful  argument  in  placing  his 
invention  with  a  large  steamship  company.  He 
had  installed  an  experimental  equipment  on  a  ship 
bound  in  to  Boston.  While  lying  off  that  harbor  in 
a  dense  fog  the  captain  of  this  ship  was  taken 
desperately  ill.  Not  a  glimpse  could  be  had  of  the 
light  on  which  the  ship  depended  for  its  position. 
The  captain's  wife  took  the  telephone  receivers  at 
the  wheel,  picked  up  the  fog  bell  accurately,  and 
piloted  the  vessel  safely  into  the  harbor. 


280 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BROAD-IMINDED  John  Mitchell,  as  I  have 
said  before,  once  described  satire  as  "a 
double-edged  weapon,  and  poisoned  at  that." 
The  truth  of  this  characterization  makes  it  a  car- 
toonist's duty  to  keep  a  close  watch  over  himself. 
The  cartoon  which  produces  the  strongest  effect  is 
one  founded  on  the  truth.  If  people  say  of  your 
cartoon,  *'I  never  saw  it  in  just  that  hght  before, 
but  it's  true,"  then  you  have  scored  a  hit. 

A  very  prominent  financier  once  complained  to 
me  of  a  fellow-cartoonist  who  portrayed  him  as  a 
wolf.  He  objected  to  the  physical  likeness  to  a  wolf, 
which  he  said,  truly  enough,  did  not  exist.  But  to 
the  inference  that  he  had  acted  like  a  wolf  he  was 
perfectly  indifferent. 

He  had  nice,  regular,  small  teeth  and  he  objected 
to  being  shown  with  fangs.  I  had  portrayed  him 
not  long  before  as  a  whale  swallowing  a  school  of 
small-fry  companions,  and  that,  I  think,  struck  him 
as  a  compliment. 

Mr.  Thomas  Piatt  was  rather  a  melancholy- 
looking  old  gentleman  with  an  eye  which  regarded 
the  world  without  enthusiasm.  I  have  always  felt 
he  owed  that  fine  cartoonist,  C.  G.  Bush,  a  yearly 
salary   for  turning  him   into  a  merry-looking  old 

281 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

fellow  with  a  good-humored  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
Bush  added  a  humanizing  touch  to  all  the  poli- 
ticians he  caricatured.  David  B.  Hill  was  not  a 
very  sympathetic-looking  character,  but  in  Bush's 
pictures,  with  a  feather  in  his  hat,  he  had  a  jolly 
air  of  good-fellowship. 

Richard  Croker  gathered  together  all  the  hard 
knocks  at  himself  in  the  way  of  cartoons  that  he 
could  lay  his  hands  upon,  and  had  them  printed 
in  a  book,  which  he  presented  to  the  men  who  had 
made  them.  I  received  a  copy  of  the  book,  but  I 
am  uncertain  to  this  day  whether  Mr.  Croker's 
action  was  a  sign  of  the  "good  sport"  or  of  a  sordid 
disregard  for  the  opinion  of  the  community. 

Daniel  Lamont  once  told  me  that  Mr.  Cleveland 
carefully  looked  over  all  the  cartoons  of  the  day. 
Poultney  Bigelow  called  on  Oom  Paul  in  the  days 
before  the  Boer  War  and  found  the  old  man  looking 
at  a  cartoon  of  mine  on  himself  in  Harper's  Weekly. 
In  the  picture  Oom  Paul  was  getting  the  better  of 
John  Bull — hence  his  interest  in  the  cartoon. 

Theodore  Roosevelt  told  me  that  he  used  to  look 
for  Fred  Opper's  pictures  in  which  he  was  repre- 
sented as  a  bad  boy,  and  that  his  children  got  no 
end  of  amusement  out  of  them,  too.  "Uncle  Joe" 
Cannon  always  enjoys  a  cartoon  on  himself — or  on 
anyone  else,  for  that  matter.  Men  with  a  sense  of 
humor  usually  are  ready  to  laugh  at  a  hit  at  their 
expense,  but  a  man  who  takes  himself  seriously — 
too  seriously,  perhaps — seldom  gets  any  joy  from  a 
cartoon  which  does  not  flatter  him.  A  corollary 
must  be  made  to  the  statement  that  when  people 

282 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

say  "a  cartoon  is  true"  the  cartoonist  has  scored  a 
hit.  Sometimes  when  letters  pour  in,  as  they  poured 
in  to  the  Herald  ofl&ce  at  times  during  the  Great 
War,  saying  that  a  certain  cartoon  was  "a  he," 
then  you  knew  surely  that  the  feathered  shaft  had 
found  its  mark. 

It  is  said  to  be  bad  policy  to  give  away  the  secrets 
of  one's  trade;  but  a  little  general  information  may 
be  risked  without  danger  of  flooding  the  market 
with  a  new  crop  of  cartoonists. 

Back  of  the  cartoonist's  house  there  lies  a  little 
garden  where  he  cultivates  his  ideas.  This  bit  of 
information  is  for  the  benefit  of  those  kindly  folks 
who  say  to  him,  "I  don't  see  how  you  keep  it  up 
day  after  day.  Where  do  you  get  your  ideas?" 
They  might  as  well  ask  of  a  farmer,  "Where  did 
you  get  all  that  corn.'^"  The  farmer  would  tell 
them  that  he  planted  it  and  broke  his  back  hoeing 
it;  otherwise  his  crop  would  fail.  The  cartoonist 
plants  his  garden  with  carefully  selected  facts. 
No  matter  how  dry  these  little  seeds  may  seem,  he 
knows  that  with  proper  cultivation  they  will  pro- 
duce a  crop  later  on.  There  is  the  whole  secret  of 
the  cartoonist's  bag  of  tricks  laid  bare. 

Change  the  metaphor  just  a  little  and  you  have: 
An  ear  of  corn,  a  "shaker,"  and  a  fire.  If  the  corn 
is  popcorn  and  you  put  it  in  the  shaker,  and  the 
shaker  over  the  fire,  the  little  hard,  dry  kernels 
suddenly  break  out  into  something  very  different 
and  very  surprising.  So — dry  facts,  tossed  about  in 
an  active  mind,  with  a  red-hot  enthusiasm — that  is 
the  way  of  the  cartoonist. 

283 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

There  are  a  few  cartoonists  who  are  successful  in 
their  craft  who  do  not  raise  their  own  ideas;  but  as 
a  rule  one  can  see  a  certain  lack  of  the  spontaneous 
in  their  productions. 

Thomas  Nast  was  one  who  expressed  himself,  his 
own  convictions,  most  truly.  It  has  been  said  that 
some  mysterious  person  or  persons  furnished  him 
with  the  brilliant  ideas  which  he  executed  with  such 
strength  and  vigor,  but  I  never  heard  a  particle  of 
evidence  to  support  the  story,  and  to  one  who  knew 
him  it  seems  absurd.  He  was  a  man  who  was  pas- 
sionately in  earnest  in  what  he  advocated  with 
his  pencil,  which  a  man  who  is  being  coached  never 
can  be. 

I  remember  well  when  Matt  Morgan  was  brought 
over  from  England  "to  put  Tom  Nast  out  of  busi- 
ness." Morgan  was  a  good  draftsman,  far  better 
in  a  conventional  sense  than  Nast;  but  his  work 
was  without  conviction,  and  the  line  he  used  was 
sickly  and  weak  in  consequence.  Thomas  Nast 
drew  as  though  the  members  of  the  old  Tweed  ring 
were  there  in  person  under  the  stinging  lash.  With 
all  the  earnestness  of  the  castigation  went  a  laugh 
at  the  culprit's  expense  which  cut  deepest  of  all. 
To  have  the  skin  cut  off  one's  back  was  bad  enough; 
but  to  be  made  ridiculous  besides — that* is  what 
made  Nast's  satire  so  deadly. 

Joseph  Keppler  was  one  of  the  few  great  cartoon- 
ists who  depended  to  a  large  extent  on  others  for  their 
ideas;  but  even  he  had  a  peculiar  faculty  of  so  fusing 
another  man's  thought  with  his  own  that  it  took  on 
another  dimension.    Keppler's  mind  was  always  in 

£84) 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

a  state  of  eruption ;  and  what  it  lacked  in  originality 
was  made  up  in  the  faculty  of  melting  down  what- 
ever was  thrown  into  it.  Certainly  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  circle  of  men  in  the  early  days  of  Puck 
who  must  have  been  invaluable  to  him. 

A  little  later  came  a  new  group  of  cartoonists, 
young  fellows  with  ideas  aplenty.  First  of  all  in 
that  respect  I  would  place  Fred  Opper  and  Grant 
Hamilton.  Like  "Johnny  Walker,"  they  are  still 
going  strong.  They  have  kept  their  little  gardens 
seeded  and  weeded  and  are  producing  a  new  crop 
of  ideas  every  season.  Of  the  two,  Hamilton  has 
more  truly  the  real  cartoon  idea,  which,  contrary 
to  the  notion  prevalent  among  newspaper  readers 
to-day,  has  nothing  to  do  with  comic  art.  However, 
no  one  will  quarrel  with  Opper  because  of  the  comic 
element  in  his  pictures.  He  has  made  more  people 
laugh,  probably,  than  any  one  else  in  the  country. 

Over  in  England  they  hold  to  the  old  distinct  line 
that  separates  the  cartoon  from  the  comic  drawing 
— the  line  between  satire  and  fooling.  Raven  Hill, 
Townsend,  and  Partridge  follow  the  general  lines  of 
the  Tenniel  cartoon — which  is  a  good-enough  model 
for  anyone.  That  was  a  cartoon  which  did  not 
exclude  humor  or  wit;  but  it  did  exclude  fooling 
and  clowning.  It  generally  declared  the  convic- 
tions of  the  best  national  thought,  which  can  be 
more  easily  done  in  a  little  concentrated  country 
like  England  than  in  a  great,  wide-spreading  land  such 
as  ours. 

This  country  has  been  strongly  swayed  by  the 
cartoon  from  the  start.     Benjamin  Franklin  made 

285 


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A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

its  first  cartoon  and  had  it  emblazoned  on  a  flag 
\  which  floated  from  one  end  of  the  Colonies  to  the 
,  /v>^^    other:    a  coiled  rattlesnake  with  head  up  high,  and 
^^,^>^    under  it  the  caption,  "Don't  Tread  on  Me!" 

Comic  art  goes  through  its  mutations  pretty 
^  \  ^  much  as  do  its  more  pretentious  brothers,  the  arts 
of  painting  and  sculpture.  The  ultramodern  comic 
artist  frankly  tells  you  that  drawing  no  longer 
counts;  and  in  this  he  is  more  honest  than  the 
ultramodern  painter,  who  insists  that  his  bad 
drawing  is  good. 

It  is  quite  possible  to  meet  the  modern  comic 
artist  halfway  and  admit  that  artistic  drawing  in 
the  comic  art  of  to-day  is  rare.  There  must  be 
something  which  partly  compensates  for  its  absence, 
and  that,  probably,  is  its  crude  reflection  of  foibles 
that  exist  all  about  us.  A  curious  inconsistency 
comes  to  the  surface  if  you  mention  the  names  of 
Caran  d'Asche,  A.  B.  Frost,  Oliver  Herford,  Tom 
Sullivant,  or  the  caricaturist  Frueh  to  one  of  these 
.  scoffers  at  "good  drawing."  Ten  to  one  he  will 
wax  enthusiastic  over  the  work  of  any  one  of  these 
men.  Theories  won't  stand  up  for  a  moment 
against  external  axiomatic  truths;  good  drawing, 
harmonious  composition,  and  the  elusive  quality 
that  can  only  be  indicated  by  the  word  "knowing" 
compel  the  admiration  of  everyone. 

It  is  only  once  or  twice  in  a  generation  that  an 
Oliver  Herford  or  a  Frueh  comes  along  with  a  humor 
played  in  tune.  In  their  wildest  exaggerations  one 
feels  a  perfect  artistic  balance.  I  have  coupled  the 
names  of  these  two  men  whose  work  is  entirely  dis- 

286 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

similar  on  the  surface,  because  the  foundation  of 
their  art  is  the  same — a  wonderful  faculty  of  con- 
veying the  sure  impression  that  they  know  infinitely 
more  than  they  put  down  on  paper — that  "knowing" 
quality  which  makes  a  slight  drawing  rich. 

Now  and  then  in  the  rough-and-ready  comic 
art  of  a  daily  paper  a  style  shines  out  on  account  of 
some  sureness  or  beauty  of  line  or  grace  of  composi- 
tion. These  are  the  qualities  which  mark  the 
drawings  of  Voight,  of  Herb  Roth,  and  of  George 
Herriman  with  his  preposterous  "Krazy  Kat."  In 
this  same  rough-and-ready  school  George  Luks 
began  his  career,  and  he  may  owe  something  of  the 
directness  of  his  splendid  rapid-fire  technic  in  paint- 
ing to  his  early  training  on  a  daily  paper.  It  has 
always  been  the  fashion  in  every  art  to  hark  back 
to  the  good  old  times  when  every  condition  was 
better,  commercialism  nonexistent,  and  pictures, 
for  instance,  were  the  expression  of  the  artist's 
emotion  and  not  of  the  art  director's  needs;  and  I 
know  that  a  good  many  illustrators  of  to-day  look 
back  to  the  'eighties  as  a  golden  age  when  conditions 
were  perfect.  In  opposition  we  have  always  with 
us  those  moderns  who  decry  everything  that  doesn't 
smell  of  new  paint. 

Having  practiced  my  profession  in  both  of  these 
periods,  I  may  be  able  to  shed  a  little  light  on  this 
contention.  An  excellent  painter,  who  began  his 
career  as  an  uncompromising  impressionist  and 
made  his  courageous  way  to  recognition  against 
great  opposition,  said  to  me  one  day  that  Abbey 
succeeded  because  he  "played  safe"  and  followed 

287 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

conventional  lines.  And  yet  I  well  remember  Mr. 
Charles  Parsons,  art  director  of  Harpers,  showing 
me  a  pile  of  letters  addressed  to  the  editor  of  Har- 
per s  Magazine  protesting  against  the  new-fangled 
stuff  which  they  supposed  Mr.  Abbey  considered 
"high  art,"  some  of  them  going  so  far  as  to  threaten 
to  cancel  their  subscriptions  if  this  outlandish  style 
of  illustration  was  not  discontinued.  My  painter 
friend  does  not  realize  that  his  own  work  is  gradu- 
ally being  looked  upon  as  academic;  and  Abbey 
was  just  as  surely  breaking  away  from  conventions 
which  had  existed  in  American  illustration  as  my 
friend  the  painter  was  from  the  deadly  "Hudson 
River"  school  which  dominated  the  painters  of  his 
day.  In  a  large  sense  tjiose  were  the  good  old  times; 
for  Winslow  Homer,  Abbey,  Reinhart,  and,  a  little 
later,  Smedley,  emancipated  illustration  from  the 
soapy,  slippery  style  of  an  earlier  day. 

Sometimes  I  am  told  that  illustrating  is  not  so 
well  paid  now  as  then,  but  this  is  a  grotesque  error. 
For  one  of  Abbey's  drawings,  I  recollect,  he  wanted 
an  expensive  costume.  It  was  to  be  a  reproduction 
of  a  gown  of  the  elaborate  period  of  Queen  Anne. 
Abbey  had  it  made  of  the  heaviest  and  finest  satin, 
superintending  all  its  details  himself. 

For  the  drawing  in  which  he  used  this  elaborate 
gown  he  received  seventy-five  dollars.  The  gown 
cost  him  one  hundred  and  fifty.  Seventy-five  dol- 
lars was  not  then  considered  a  low  price  for  a  draw- 
ing which  would  easily  bring  from  three  to  five 
hundred  now,  but  Abbey  was  always  ready  to  mort- 
gage his  future  to  accomplish  a  high  ideal,  and  in 

288 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

consequence  he  was  usually  either  getting  into  or 
just  out  of  debt. 

Reinhart  was  supposed  in  those  days  to  be  one 
of  the  best-paid  illustrators,  but  I  doubt  if  even  he 
made  as  much  money  as  a  third-rate  man  of  to-da;\' 
would  consider  his  due. 

Not  that  these  men  of  the  'eighties  were  dis- 
contented with  their  lot;  on  the  contrary,  the 
standard  of  living  was  on  a  less  expensive  scale,  and 
over  the  men  of  to-day  they  had  one  distinct  advan- 
tage, dear  to  the  soul  of  any  artist.  Thanks  to  the 
clear  vision  and  good  common  sense  of  wise  old 
Charles  Parsons,  every  man  who  came  to  Franklin 
Square — and  that  was  the  Mecca  of  illustrators  in 
those  days — was  encouraged  to  be  true  to  his  own 
ideas,  to  develop  his  own  style,  to  interpret  nature 
after  his  own  heart.  If  he  suddenly  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  was  on  the  wrong  tack  and 
started  to  steer  awaj'  from  a  course  long  followed, 
he  was  not  confronted  with  the  admonition,  "This 
is  not  an  Abbey,"  or,  "This  Is  not  a  Reinhart,"  but 
was  encouraged  to  keep  on  his  way  and  produce  a 
work  with  a  difference  dear  to  his  soul. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  for  one  man  who 
could  do  good  work  in  illustration  in  the  'eighties 
there  are  twenty  now.  Technically,  the  general 
standard  is  higher  now  than  then.  Cleverness  is 
abroad  in  the  land.  Perhaps  the  word  "cleverness" 
may  carry  different  meanings  to  various  minds. 
Let  me  give  the  definition  it  holds  in  mine.  Clever- 
ness, I  should  say,  is  the  faculty  of  doing  a  difficult 
thing  with  apparent  ease;   and  it  immediately  sug- 

289 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

gests  that  the  clever  person  has  done  it  before, 
over  and  over  again.  For  that  reason  the  clever 
artist  is  seldom  creative  in  his  work.  Like  the 
juggler,  his  performance  is  always  the  same.  He 
has  solved  a  difficult  problem  or  two  and  that  is 
all  he  has  to  offer. 

Commercial  art  has  opened  up  a  wonderful  field 
for  clever  work,  and  one  cannot  help  but  admire  the 
skillful  technic  displayed  in  some  of  it.  It  is  a  joy 
to  any  lover  of  good  workmanship,  and  yet  it  is  not 
exactly  a  satisfying  development  of  the  art  of  illus- 
tration. Nothing  can  ever  compensate  for  the  lack 
of  a  motif,  a  something  which  carries  your  imagina- 
tion out  of  and  beyond  the  picture.  If  we  have  now 
lost  this  to  a  certain  extent,  then  .the  'eighties  was 
perhaps  the  golden  age  of  American  illustration. 

The  machinery  of  modern  life  is  ever  becoming 
more  complicated;  more  wheels  and  cogs  for  us  all 
to  be  tangled  up  in.  My  old  Seminole  friend  was 
right — "The  white  man  seeks  to  multiply  his  de- 
sires." From  all  this  artificiality  the  artist  is  suf- 
fering. It  brings  him  more  work  to  do  than  ever 
before,  but  it  takes  away  his  freedom  to  express 
himself.  Artistically,  he  was  better  off  in  the  Stone 
Age  when  he  left  the  first  records  of  human  intelli- 
gence and  aesthetic  feehng  on  the  walls  of  the  caves 
of  France  and  Spain.  It  is  good  discipline  for  a 
modern  artist,  when  he  feels  a  pride  in  his  knowl- 
edge and  skillful  draftsmanship,  to  look  at  the 
straightforward  drawings,  powerful  in  their  bald 
simplicity  of  those  prehistoric  artists. 

The  first  sight  of  the  Abbe  Breuil's  reproduction 

290 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

of  the  great  drawing  in  the  Altamira  cavern  of  a 
charging  boar  gives  one  a  thrill  never  to  be  for- 
gotten. If  any  modern  artist  has  ever  produced  so 
great  an  effect  with  such  simple  means,  let  him 
speak  up.  I,  for  one,  would  travel  a  long  way  to 
see  his  work;  and  yet  in  this  great  drawing  one 
feels  that  it  was  not  a  work  of  cleverness,  but  a 
drawing  made  from  one  tremendous  impression. 

The  cave  man  who  made  it  perhaps  saw  a  comrade 
gored  to  death  by  this  fiery  beast.  Something  must 
have  set  the  image  of  this  charging  boar  indelibly 
on  his  brain.  The  technic  of  the  cave  man,  which 
seems  to  be  well  preserved  in  the  reproduction, 
shows  not  the  slightest  evidence  of  timidity  or  fussi- 
ness.    Every  stroke  tells. 

I  am  not  sure  that  the  poster  artists  would  relish 
the  bald  statement  that  they  are  the  cave  men  of 
to-day;  but,  taken  in  connection  with  what  goes 
before,  they  will  see  that  in  so  characterizing  them 
I  pay  them  a  very  high  compliment. 

It  is  violating  no  secret  in  the  artists'  world  to 
say  that  Edward  Penfield  was  the  first  man  in 
America  to  make  of  posters  works  of  art.  One  day 
while  looking  over  a  portfolio  of  French  posters  in 
a  shop  quite  near  the  Seine  in  Paris  I  came  across  a 
group  of  Penfi eld's  posters  made  to  advertise  Har- 
per's Magazine.  The  shopkeeper  informed  me  they 
were  held  in  very  high  esteem  by  the  many  French 
painters  and  illustrators  who  frequented  his  store. 
The  beauty  of  these  posters,  many  of  which  I  can 
remember  in  detail,  lay  in  an  oddity  of  composition 
and   an   apparent   simplicity   of   drawing.     I   say 

291 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

apparent  simplicity,  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was 
the  effect  which  was  simple;  the  complicated 
problems  back  of  the  drawing  all  had  been  solved 
beforehand.  I  am  very  sure  if  Penfield  had  been 
born  in  France  his  work  would  long  since  have 
received  the  recognition  of  the  state  and,  as  a  mural 
decorator,  he  would  be  known  by  works  of  a  per- 
manent character. 

Other  men  who  have  made  of  their  posters  works 
of  splendid  simplicity  and  fine  art,  and  who  are 
recognized  by  their  fellows  as  masters  of  their  craft, 
are  C.  B.  Falls,  John  Sheridan,  and  Adolph  Treidler. 
There  are  others  who  may  rank  equally  high  with 
these,  but  I  give  here  only  a  personal  impression. 
To  me  these  men  have  added  to  the  sum  of  Amer- 
ican art  quite  as  much  as  any  contemporaneous 
painters. 

Except  to  draw  attention  to  what  is  new  in  the 
development  of  humorous  drawings,  cartoons,  com- 
mercial illustrations,  and  posters,  I  have  refrained 
from  commenting  on  the  work  of  individual  illus- 
trators of  to-day.  This  comes  not  from  any  lack  of 
appreciation,  but  rather  from  a  feeling  that  in  sin- 
gling out  a  certain  few  I  should  be  doing  scant  justice 
to  many  men  who  are  "carrying  on"  with  equal 
skill  and  talent;  and  still  it  seems  permissible  to 
pay  a  little  tribute  to  a  few  men  who  are  recognized 
by  all  their  comrades  as  leaders — men  who  have 
followed  art's  best  traditions  by  avoiding  beaten 
paths.  In  speaking  of  the  illustrators  of  to-day  I 
believe  almost  any  group  of  the  younger  men  would 
place  Gruger  and  Raleigh  and  Wallace  Morgan  at 

292 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

the  head  of  the  craft  in  America.  Having  worked 
with  almost  every  group  since  the  days  of  Abbey  and 
Reinhart,  I  would  heartily  indorse  such  a  judgment. 
All  this  I  say  without  prejudice  to  the  splendid 
work  of  many  others  in  the  field. 

The  art  of  illustration  changes  every  day.  Let 
us  be  thankful  that  it  moves,  for  in  stagnation  is 
death. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  no  writer,  at  least  to  my 
knowledge,  even  though  he  may  have  started  out  in 
life  as  a  reporter  himself,  has  ever  given  us  a  por- 
trait of  a  reporter  of  the  first  rank.  It  would  be 
presumptuous  to  attempt  anything  of  the  kind 
here,  but  from  the  days  of  the  Daily  Graphic  through 
my  years  with  the  Herald,  and  in  various  other  con- 
nections as  well,  I  have  known  some  of  the  great 
reporters  of  my  time,  so  I  may  perhaps  venture  on  an 
impression  or  two. 

The  equipment  of  some  of  these  men  for  their 
work  is  often  extraordinary.  "Nick"  Biddle,  who 
wrote  for  the  Herald  up  to  the  time  of  his  death 
about  fifteen  years  ago,  had  traveled  all  over  the 
world  to  its  most  remote  corners,  knew  everybody 
worth  knowing,  could  talk  or  write  entertainingly 
about  any  place  or  anything  or  anybody  in  the 
world.  Nobody  was  able  to  rebuff  him  when  he 
went  after  a  piece  of  news,  because,  primarily, 
nobody  wanted  to.  He  had  a  slight  but  rather 
fascinating  hesitation  in  his  speech,  which  added  to 
the  brilliance  of  his  conversation. 

Somebody  asked  Julian  Ralph'once  how  long  he  had 
been  a  journalist,  and  Ralph  replied  that  he  was  not 

293 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

a  journalist;  he  was  a  reporter.  And  I  suppose  in 
many  respects  he  was  one  of  the  most  noted  reporters 
in  the  world.  One  of  his  greatest  qualities  as  an 
observer  was  an  unprejudiced  eye  and  ear.  He  had 
what  artists  call  the  "innocent  eye" — that  is,  the 
eye  which  can  dismiss  all  former  impressions  and 
see  what  is  before  it  absolutely  anew. 

I  once  went  with  him  for  Harper's  Weekly  to  make 
a  picture  of  lower  Broadway.  He  was  to  do  the 
story  and  I  the  picture.  We  both  knew  lower 
Broadway  backward  and  forward,  saw  it  every  day 
of  our  lives.  But  when  we  arrived  at  that  great 
thoroughfare,  Ralph  said:  "Now  let  us  shut  our  eyes 
for  a  moment  or  two — and  open  them  on  Broadway 
for  the  first  time!  Not  a  thing  do  we  know  of  the 
old  street;  we  are  strangers;  it  is  all  new!"  It 
was  a  great  idea  and  was  new  to  me  then,  but  it 
has  stood  me  in  good  stead  many  a  time  since. 

Ralph  wrote  a  series  of  stories  in  the  Sun  about  a 
German  barber.  In  the  language  he  put  in  the  bar- 
ber's mouth  he  used  broken  English,  but  a  German 
construction  of  sentences.  Ralph  told  me  as  a 
great  joke  that  a  very  learned  professor  of  languages 
wrote  him  and  referred  to  the  profound  knowledge 
of  the  German  language  shown  in  the  construction 
of  his  sentences  underlying  the  broken  English. 
Ralph  said  that  he  had  no  knowledge  of  German 
whatever,  but  had  used  his  ability  as  a  reporter  to 
memorize  the  expressions  of  a  real  German  with 
whom  he  often  talked. 

Richard  Harding  Davis  began  his  career  as  a 
reporter  on  the  Evening  Sun,  and  it  was  while  there 

294 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

that  he  wrote  the  never-to-be-forgotten  "Gallagher." 
Davis  could  hardly  be  classed  with  Biddle  and  Ralph 
as  a  reporter  because  he  was  b^^  nature  a  writer  of 
stories;  yet  in  a  very  great  part  of  his  literary  work 
the  keen  sight  of  the  accurate  reporter  is  to  be 
seen.  "Our  English  Cousins"  is  reporting  of  a 
very  high  order. 

Don  Martin  is  a  name  to  bring  tears  to  the  eyes 
of  any  Herald  man.  The  story  of  his  devotion  to 
our  men  at  the  front  in  France,  to  the  younger  men 
of  his  own  profession  who  were  there,  as  he  was,  to 
tell  the  story  of  our  army's  deeds,  and  his  devotion 
to  the  service  of  his  paper  is  known  m  every  news- 
paper office  m  the  land. 

There  was  a  deep  human  note  in  his  stories  from 
the  front  that  was  scarcely  equaled  by  any  cor- 
respondent in  the  war  zone.  Not  at  any  time  a 
robust  man,  he  used  up  every  ounce  of  energy  he 
possessed  in  the  line  of  duty,  and,  although  stricken 
with  a  fatal  illness,  was  up  and  dressed  in  his 
correspondent's  uniform  within  twenty  hours  of  his 
death.  Absolute  faithfulness  to  every  trust  was  the 
keynote  of  Don  Martin's  character. 

During  the  Hughes-Wilson  campaign  of  1916 
Martin  was  in  charge  of  the  Herald's  straw-vote 
column.  It  was  well  known  to  everyone  on  "the 
inside"  that  he  was  INIr.  Hughes's  choice  for  secre- 
tary to  the  President,  but  in  conducting  the  straw 
vote  Don  Martin  never  allowed  his  personal  for- 
tunes to  influence  his  judgment  or  his  statements 
of  facts  one  iota.  On  the  night  of  the  election,  when 
the  returns  from  the  East  gave  every  indication 

295 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

that  Hughes  was  elected,  Don  Martin  told  me 
that  he  of  course  was  sorry  to  have  to  dispute  the 
returns,  but  all  his  advance  information  pointed  the 
other  way.  He  had  that  morning  published  his 
conclusion  based  on  these  reports,  that  Mr.  Wilson 
would  in  all  probability  be  elected;  and  he  stood 
by  that.  I  know  that  his  honest,  wise,  and  unpreju- 
diced statements  of  political  conditions  during  that 
campaign  never  lost  him  the  friendship  of  Charles 
Evans  Hughes  for  one  moment. 

One  who  had  no  personal  acquaintance  with  Don 
Martin  might  gather  from  this  that  his  was  a  stern, 
severe  personality  which  held  men  aloof,  but  exactly 
the  opposite  was  the  fact.  Often  at  midnight,  when 
his  work  was  done,  he  would  be  found  at  his  type- 
writer pounding  out  a  little  nonsense  rhyme  to  his 
only  daughter,  who  lived  out  of  town;  or  some  poor 
fellow  in  the  craft  who  had  fallen  from  a  former  high 
estate  through  illness  or  drink  might  be  seen  coming 
away  from  Martin's  desk  crumpling  up  a  bill  that 
could  be  had  from  Don  INIartin,  by  anyone  in  hard 
luck,  for  the  asking. 

There  probably  never  was  a  man  in  the  newspaper 
world  so  guileless;  yet  Don  Martin  was  the  hardest 
man  in  that  world  to  deceive.  Even  the  scalawags 
who  imposed  on  his  good  nature  and  his  purse 
fooled  him  not  at  all.  For  them  he  had  a  profound 
pity  which  vised  all  drafts,  A  comrade  who  was 
with  him  in  France  told  me  that  the  first  thing  Don 
Martin  did  on  arriving  at  his  quarters  for  the  night, 
after  a  day  of  exhausting  work  and  before  he  began 
his  dispatch  to  his  paper,  was  to  open  his  bag,  bring 

296 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

out  a  picture  of  his    little    daughter,  and    place  it 
on  a  box  or  a  bureau  where  he  could  see  it. 

This  was  as  invariable  as  the  day,  and  it  is  with 
that  picture,  so  characteristic  and  so  deeply  human, 
that  I  leave  him. 

A  very  joyful  occupation,  to  my  notion,  is  that  of 
illustrating  boys'  stories.  J.  T.  Trowbridge  and  Kirk 
Munroe  wrote  fine,  healthy,  hearty  books  for  boys, 
and  I  had  the  good  luck  to  illustrate  many  of  them. 
Brander  Matthews  wrote  a  very  good  boys'  story 
for  which  I  made  the  pictures  with  great  joy.  James 
Otis  wrote  "Toby  Tyler",  and  Kirk  Munroe,  then 
editor  of  Har'pers  Young  People,  picked  me  out  to 
make  the  illustrations.  For  that  privilege  I  have 
been  thankful  ever  since.  The  story  was  published 
in  serial  form ;  and  week  after  week  I  made  the  little 
pictures,  sandwiched  in  between  news  drawings  and 
cartoons  for  Harper^s  Weekly. 

No  one  said  anything  about  the  pictures  during 
that  time  except  James  Otis,  who  was  very  encourag- 
ing in  his  comments.  So  far  as  I  could  see  the 
drawings  were  making  no  impression.  Yet,  of  the 
thousands  of  drawings  I  have  made  since,  none  has 
ever  brought  me  so  many  friends  as  those  very 
simple  little  sketches  of  Toby  and  Old  Ben  and 
Mr.  Stubbs. 

It  was  my  first  essay  at  a  boys*  story,  and  when 
at  the  end  of  the  year  the  originals  in  pen-and-ink 
were  all  destroyed,  as  was  the  custom  with  all 
illustrations  not  considered  worth  keeping,  I  felt 
considerably  discouraged. 

297 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

The  next  year  I  illustrated  "Mr.  Stubbs's 
Brother,"  a  sequel  to  "Toby,"  and  was  still  engaged 
on  the  pictures  when  Abbey  returned  from  abroad, 
where  he  had  lived  for  two  years.  He  was  enthu- 
siastic about  Toby,  had  followed  him  from  week  to 
week  over  in  London.  My  little  pictures  had  made 
him  homesick.  "All  the  homely  details  of  American 
dooryards  were  so  true  and  it  was  boyhood  all  over 
again."  I  told  him  then,  I  recollect,  that  he  was  the 
first  person  except  James  Otis  to  say  a  word  in  favor 
of  the  drawings.  Yet  I  can  truly  say  that  not  a 
month  has  passed  in  many,  many  years  without 
some  one  coming  to  me  with  a  good  word  for  the 
"Toby"  pictures. 

But  all  this  about  the  pictures  is  rather  putting 
the  cart  before  the  horse.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
genius  of  James  Otis  there  would  not  have  been 
any  "Toby  Tyler."  Otis,  when  he  wrote  "Toby 
Tyler,"  was  about  forty  years  of  age,  but  the  boy 
in  him  got  the  better  of  the  man  most  of  the  time 
even  then.  He  had  done  journalistic  work  before 
that  and  at  one  time  had  written  sermons  for  a 
syndicate;  but  "Toby"  was,  I  believe,  his  first 
boys'  story.  He  was  the  owner  of  several  parrots 
and  a  small  monkey  when  I  made  his  acquaintance, 
and  Toby's  affection  for  Mr.  Stubbs  was  only  a 
reflection  of  Otis's  own  feelings. 

Wlien  Toby  grew  tired  of  the  tame  life  at  old 
Uncle  Daniel's  he  was  only  expressing  James  Otis's 
restless  nature.  Otis  had  no  sooner  sold  his  story 
to  Harper  s  Young  People  than  he  invested  part  of 
his  money  in  an  unseaworthy  old  power  boat  and 

298 


A  LITTLE  MODEL  AYHO  POSED  FOR  "TOBY  TYLER' 


HUNGRY  GULCH 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

started  gayly  for  Florida.  If  I  remember  rightly  he 
spent  a  large  part  of  his  vacation  in  various  shipyards 
and  repair  shops  as  he  gradually  worked  his  way  down 
bj'  the  inside  route.  Perhaps  he  got  as  far  as  Savan- 
nah, but  I  hardly  think  he  ever  reached  the  Florida 
waters. 

He  was  a  wonderful  companion  if  one  was  not  too 
busy  a  person;  for,  boylike,  he  considered  business 
as  a  miserable  necessary  preliminary  to  a  renewed 
joy  of  living.  Once  when  he  had  a  severe  attack  of 
restlessness  he  started  off  to  New  Orleans  in  a 
canoe,  embarking  at  Cincinnati.  He  wished  to 
experience  the  adventures  of  another  Huckleberry 
Finn,  I  think.  After  paddling  down  the  river  in  the 
hot  sun  for  half  a  day  he  was  overtaken  by  a  large 
steamboat  bound  for  the  same  port.  Otis  felt  that 
he  could  not  compete,  either  in  speed  or  in  comfort, 
with  so  huge  a  craft,  and  had  himself  and  his  canoe 
hauled  aboard,  completing  the  voyage  in  much  less 
time  than  it  took  Huckleberry  to  go  half  the  dis- 
tance. A  few  months  in  New  Orleans  was  enough 
to  breed  a  longing  for  the  North  again;  and,  not 
having  the  price  of  a  passage  up  the  river  handy,  he 
wrote  half  a  dozen  of  his  friends  to  meet  him  either 
in  person  or  by  check  at  the  dock  in  Cincinnati  and 
take  him  and  his  luggage  out  of  pawn. 

Fortunately,  he  had  friends  who  thought  enough 
of  him  to  do  first  a  little  swearing  and  then  get 
together  and  all  break  out  into  a  roar  of  laughter, 
after  which  they  delegated  one  of  their  number  to 
meet  Otis  in  Cincinnati  and  get  him  "out  of  hock." 
I  was  informed  by  this  friend  that  when  the  steamer 

299 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

pulled  in  to  the  landing  at  Cincinnati  James  Otis 
was  to  be  seen  up  in  the  pilot  house  beside  the 
captain,  smoking  a  long  black  cigar. 

After  this  he  settled  down  in  Philadelpliia,  wrote 
a  story,  paid  off  his  friends,  was  prosperous  for  a 
time,  and  then  fell  into  a  run  of  hard  luck.  It  was 
during  this  last  period  that  I  found  myself  in  Phila- 
delphia one  day  and  spent  a  morning  looking  him 
up.  I  found  the  house  at  last,  a  tiny  dwelling  on  a 
little  back  street — Perry  Street,  I  think.  A  brass 
knocker  hung  on  the  door  and  I  used  it  vigorously. 
A  hollow  booming  was  all  the  result  obtained.  Re- 
peated knocks  brought  no  response.  Finally,  I 
heard  a  window  on  the  top  floor  cautiously  opened. 
A  face  almost  hidden  in  an  old  shawl  peered  out 
and  a  voice  came  down:  "Go  away.  Go  away. 
Nobody  lives  here.    I'm  the  caretaker.    Go  away!" 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  go  away,  James  Otis!"  I 
answered.  "Not  if  I  have  to  break  in  your  front 
door." 

"Glory!  Glory!"  was  all  that  came  from  above 
as  the  window  closed.  And  in  a  very  few  moments 
there  was  a  great  creaking  of  bolts  as  Otis  took  down 
the  barricade  and  opened  his  front  door.  Poverty 
and  creditors  were  all  forgotten  in  a  moment,  for 
here  was  an  old  friend. 

We  cooked  up  what  he  had  in  the  house  for  lunch, 
spent  a  glorious  afternoon  talking  about  what  Otis 
was  going  to  do  when  his  next  book  came  out  and 
all  the  wonderful  places  he  was  going  to  visit  with 
the  money,  and  then  wound  up  the  evening  with  a 
dinner  downtown. 

300 


A     WORLD     WOIiril    WHILE 

The  last  years  of  his  life  were  spent  very  quietly 
up  in  Maine.  He  got  much  out  of  life  that  he  loved. 
Money  meant  nothing  to  him  at  all.  He  loved  little 
children,  although  he  had  none  of  his  own.  But  to 
other  people's  children,  to  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands,  he  gave  all  he  had  with  all  his  heart. 

I  remember  once  while  reading  Andrew  Lpng's 
prose  translation  of  the  Odyssey — which,  by  the  way, 
is  to  my  notion  the  most  truly  poetical  of  all  trans- 
lations— it  seemed  for  a  moment  that  I  sat  by  the 
fire  and  saw  old  Odysseus  rise  up  and  make  a  ges- 
ture as  though  about  to  start  the  story  of  his  adven- 
tures. Such  an  experience  is,  of  course,  not  for 
mortal  man,  but  imagine  what  a  privilege  it  must 
have  been  to  see  one  of  the  most  romantic  characters 
of  modern  days  under  almost  the  same  surroundings. 
I  never  saw  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  but  once,  but  I 
had  an  excellent  view  of  him  on  that  occasion.  He 
had  just  had  an  upset  in  his  canoe  on  the  Delaware 
River.  He  strongly  resembled  a  magnificent  statue 
in  ivory  and  bronze  as  he  stood  by  the  fire,  drying 
his  clothes. 

His  comrade  on  this  "Inland  Voyage'*  was  Dr. 
Ramon  Guiteras,  and  they  had  been  cruising  on  the 
rivers  of  eastern  Pennsylvania  for  some  weelvs. 
During  this  time  they  had  visited  the  coal-mining 
region,  where  at  that  time  conditions  were  extremely 
bad,  and  O'Reilly's  big  heart  had  been  torn  by  a 
scene  at  a  pit's  mouth  where  the  mangled  bodies  of 
some  miners,  who  had  been  caught  in  a  "squeeze,** 
were  brought  to  the  surface.    I  can  see  him  now,  a 

301 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

magnificent  specimen  of  a  man,  liis  only  covering  a 
blanket  thrown  over  one  shoulder,  his  bare  bronzed 
arm  raised  in  protest  to  heaven  against  the  hard  lot 
of  those  poor  fellows  and  of  their  wives  and  children. 

It  was  rather  an  odd  meeting  all  around.  Kirk 
Munroe  and  I  had  been  up  in  the  coal  regions,  too. 
Ours  was  a  tramp  trip  in  search  of  material  for  a 
story  of  a  breaker  boy,  which  Munroe  was  to  write 
and  I  to  illustrate.  The  hero,  as  Kirk  Munroe 
planned  the  story,  was  to  be  a  steadfast  sort  of  boy, 
and  he  had  tentatively  picked  out  Sterling  as  his 
last  name,  but  a  good  given  name  wasn't  so  easy 
to  find. 

One  day  I  sat  sketching  a  lot  of  mining  machinery 
at  the  mouth  of  a  pit,  and  above  everything  loomed 
a  great  derrick  which  to  an  artist's  eye  suggested 
power. 

"Kirk,"  I  called,  "I've  got  a  name  for  Sterling: 
Derrick,  Derrick  Sterling!" 

"Hooray!"  came  back  the  answer  from  Munroe, 
who  was  interviewing  a  group  of  grimy  little  breaker 
boys.    "Derrick  Sterling  it  is!" 

Having  finished  our  business  in  the  coal  regions, 
we  tramped  to  Bethlehem  and  then  to  Easton.  We 
were  on  our  way  up  the  Delaware  to  the  Water  Gap 
when  we  met  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  and  Doctor 
Guiteras  at  the  foot  of  a  very  bad  "rift,"  where 
they  had  come  to  grief.  I  always  associate  that 
picture  of  O'Reilly  with  the  story  of  his  escape  from 
penal  servitude  by  swimming  six  miles  out  to  sea 
to  a  schooner  which  was  away  beyond  his  range  of 
vision,  but  which  he  had  faith  would  be  there  waiting 

302 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

for  him.  As  he  stood  with  the  h'ght  marking  out  the 
magnificent  outhnes  of  a  perfect  and  harmonious 
muscular  body  one  could  readily  believe  him  capable 
of  a  feat  so  marvelous. 

Writing  of  Kirk  Munroe  reminds  me  that  there  is 
no  finer  combination  than  the  mind  of  a  man  and 
the  heart  of  a  boy.  That  combination  is  what  makes 
the  charm  of  Kirk  Munroe's  stories  for  old  boys  and 
young  boys.  Kirk  Munroe  began  his  career  as  a 
reporter,  and  he  liked  to  get  his  facts  at  first  hand. 
He  had  no  trouble  in  looking  at  the  world  from  a 
boy's  standpoint,  for  he  had  only  to  look  through  his 
own  eyes. 

One  who  knew  Kirk  Munroe  only  in  a  city  environ- 
ment knew  him  not  at  all.  It  was  by  the  camp  fire  or 
tramping  through  the  mysterious  North  Woods,  or 
in  the  illuminating  flash  of  a  paddle  on  a  rock-bound 
lake  that  the  real  Kirk  Munroe  was  revealed. 

I  remember  that  once  when  he  and  I  were  camp- 
ing on  a  Canadian  lake  during  several  weeks  of  a 
very  stormy  season  we  lived  in  a  little  A  tent  set  up 
on  a  great  ledge  of  rock.  There  was  a  "meet"  of 
canoeists  there,  and  one  night  a  young  fellow  came 
to  our  tent  who  said  he  hailed  from  Boston  and  had 
run  up  to  see  the  "meet"  for  a  day  or  so  while  on 
his  way  to  Chicago.  He  had  no  tent  or  camp  outfit, 
so  we  invited  him  to  share  our  limited  quarters. 
He  was  an  exceedingly  cheerful  chap,  with  enthu- 
siasm enough  to  run  a  circus,  and  he  had  ideas  on 
everything  under  the  sun,  which  he  spun  out  that 
night  while  the  lightning  sizzled  above  us  and  the 
thunder  crashed  over  our  rocky  bed.    The  name  of 

303 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

this  youngster,  by  the  way,  was  Samuel  S.  McClure, 
and  before  midnight  he  had  confided  to  us  that  he 
was  editor  of  the  Wheelman,  with  a  salary  of  fifteen 
dollars  per  week. 

The  names  of  men  which  have  appeared  in  this 
book  are,  for  the  most  part,  known  to  everyone. 
I  have  merely  endeavored  to  bring  them  a  little 
closer  by  relating  personal  experiences  with  them. 
But  I  have  reserved  one  name  to  the  last,  a  name 
unknown  to  history,  yet  worthy  to  stand  beside 
that  of  heroes  who  have  been  crowned  with  laurel. 
I  never  saw  this  man,  but  his  story  comes  to  me  so 
intimately,  touches  me  so  closely,  that  I  set  it  down, 
feeling  that  no  more  fit  ending  could  be  made  to  my 
impressions  of  a  world  worth  while. 

On  a  summer's  afternoon  in  1902  a  train  loaded 
with  passengers  was  ascending  the  last  grade  on  its 
way  to  Lake  George  over  a  branch  of  the  Delaware 
&  Hudson  Railroad.  It  was  drawn  by  two  engines. 
At  the  throttle  in  the  forward  engine  sat  William 
Howe.  He  was  a  quiet  man,  and  in  his  home  across 
Lake  Champlain  lived  his  wife  and  his  children. 
Suddenly  he  saw,  far  up  on  the  grade  in  front  of 
him,  a  flat  car,  loaded  high  with  huge  timbers, 
coming  down  toward  him.  It  had  broken  loose  on  a 
side  track  at  the  top  of  the  grade  and  was  now  on 
the  main  track,  rushing  down  at  ever-increasing 
speed.  A  collision  was  inevitable,  instant  action 
was  necessary;  and  William  Howe's  plan  of  action 
was  made  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

"Get   over   the   tank,"   he  said,   quietly,   to  his 

804  ! 


A    WORLD    WORTH    WHILE 

fireman,  "pull  the  pin  when  I  slack  up,  and  stay 
on  the  rear  engine." 

"But  you?"  said  the  fireman. 

"Never  mind  me.    Do  as  I  say." 

The  fireman  obeyed.  The  forward  engine  whistled 
for  the  brakes,  then  it  slackened  speed  for  a  moment. 
The  fireman  pulled  the  pin.  Then  with  every 
pound  of  steam  on,  the  throttle  out  full,  the  engine 
leaped  forward  toward  the  oncoming  lumber  car. 

There  was  no  time  then  for  the  engineer  to  jump; 
only  a  moment  passed  before  his  engine  plunged 
into  the  towering  pile  of  onrushing  timbers. 

But  who  shall  say  what  thoughts  passed  through 
that  quiet  hero's  brain  in  that  moment  as  he  went 
to  his  death?  His  duty  to  those  people  on  his  train, 
people  he  had  never  seen,  but  whose  safety  was 
sacred  in  his  simple  code — and  then,  his  home  across 
the  blue  lake,  and — death! 

It  is  a  short  story.  It  all  happened  in  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  give  this  simple  outline  of  it. 

William  Howe  did  nothing  daring,  for  to  dare 
implies  a  chance  of  escape.  There  was  no  glory  in 
it  except  the  glory  of  God.  But  there  was  in  it  a 
most  supreme  self-sacrifice,  a  grandeur  of  lonely 
heroism  never  quite  paralleled  in  any  deed  of  which 
I  know.  I  am  indebted  for  these  details  to  a  very 
dear  member  of  my  family  who  was  a  passenger  on 
that  train. 

I  know  no  more  fitting  name  to  close  these  impres- 
sions of  a  world  worth  while  than  that  of  William 
Howe. 

THE    END 


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